The Muses
by La Patron-Minette
Summary: Ten years after the student rebellion, an art fanatic stumbles across superb drawings by a mysterious artist who signs his name 'R'. R's artwork tells a story of unrequited love, a girl who might as well have been France, and a boy who shone brighter than the sun. Enjolras/OC, e/R and Eponine/Courfeyrac.
1. A School Project

The first of the series was found in the café Musain. It was hanging in the back room, next to a map of the French Republic. The portrait stumped the art critic who bought it from the aged owner, for it had no true style.

It depicted a young woman. Her hair seemed tangible, and yet her facial features resembled those on cartoons. Her clothing followed the Greek style of flowing, and yet they were decorated like they were miniature abstract paintings inside the larger sketch.

The woman had long, shaggy hair. The artist, who signed his name with just a simple 'R', colored lightly enough so that the charcoal was the prominent display of material. However, a closer inspection would reveal color. The hair was a warm caramel color and framed a tan face- not something that one would think lovely, but something that R managed to make appear so. Her eyes were swirls of pale color, so that they appeared to be all colors and none at the same time.

Her bones jutted from beneath her skin, and R made it so that a single scar was colored a bright red while the rest remained gray. Bruises decorated the crook of her elbow, and yet a smile twitched her plump lips.

On the back was a nonsensical note, "_Apollo serait jaloux de moi. J'ai Patria de contempler dans toute sa gloire._"* Followed was a scribbled date, as if added at the last minute. "_15, September, 1831_."

The art critique, who we shall now refer to as 'Henri', was overly fascinated by this work, and proceeded to search galleries and pawn shops everywhere for another painting. His findings led him through a story that remained untold until then. It was the story of Patria, R, and Apollo.

* * *

The sun was gleaming on the washed stones of the elegant buildings. Cheerful chattering filled the airs, the deep voices occasionally mingling with a feminine laugh as a student's mistress joined him on his way home. The air smelt of autumn, and yet the weather hadn't gotten wind of such news, so the resulting day was beautiful and perfect to everyone but a single man who walked alone.

To this man, who you may have guessed was the painter 'R', everything was overly gay and far too excitable for his liking. He preferred things to be easy on the eyes, for this early in the morning he was stuck in a perpetual hangover from his excess drinking the night before. One could even argue that the Green Fairy was still buzzing in his ear during his first class, causing his poisoned blood to pump a little faster than usual.

To top off the beginning of what he was sure to be a terrible day, he was given a mandatory assignment that he found rather droll.

"Depict something you do not believe in, and make it seem beautiful." The professor had said, aiming a pointed look at 'R' as he said so. "Monsieur Grantaire, this should be quite an easy assignment for you."

It was true. R, or Grantaire, was a natural cynic who believed in nothing but drinking and loyalty to tangible objects. This is why he was so opposed to this new project, for it presented little-to-no challenge to the student artist. He could easily sit down the handsome Enjolras and have him list the things that Les Amis de l'ABC believed in, but the latter party probably wouldn't finish in time for the deadline.

He was lost in his thoughts; none of the random ideas that flitted through his tired brain made any sense except for one, _It's not too early to drink, is it_?

It was that moment that he registered the lightest brushing against his thigh. His hand shot out with an ability procured from his many years of gymnastics, and he caught the thief by the wrist.

A pair of startling eyes stared up at him, their owner unfazed and staring at him with a fierce determination that was all too familiar. It was a girl, no older than seventeen, and her wrist felt far too delicate in Grantaire's calloused hands.

The two stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, staring down with an intensity that very nearly matched that of bickering siblings. Finally, the girl spoke with a high voice that lilted with a strange accent. Her shaking tone revealed that she was more scared than she let on.

"You're not going to call the police, are you?"

She also spoke in flawless grammar, which was highly unusual for a street urchin. He shook his head. He'd had enough run-ins with the police for public indecency, and with the unpleasant addition of treason on behalf of Les Amis, the police were a force to avoid.

The autumn sun suddenly hit the girl so that she lit up as if enveloped in a heavenly shaft of light. Her hair seemed rich and healthy, and her eyes were alight with a youthful glow. Her skin was a warm shade that was far different from the women that Grantaire was used to bedding, and even her scars seemed to take on an unearthly beauty.

"_Patria_." He whispered, and she looked at him with confusion etched into her grimy features.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur?"

"Listen, _petite fille_, I have a deal to strike with you. I won't go to the police if-" He began, but she shrunk inside herself, her delicate limbs quivering as she shook her head violently.

"_Non, non, non_. I'd rather go to jail than do that! Monsieur, please, I beg of you, I am not that kind of woman!" She basically spit, recoiling as if Grantaire was liable to hit her. He barked out a laugh. This was obviously the opposite of what she expected, for her face fell slack.

"I was to ask if I could do your portrait for a class assignment! For the time that it takes to complete, I'd give you meals…" He knew that he had her at 'meals', so he shifted his grip so that it appeared that the dark-haired cynic was escorting a strange _gamine_ down the road by the university.

* * *

"_Parfait_." He murmured as he sharpened his pencil against his pocket knife. For indeed, it was true. She was a perfect muse.

The girl, whose name he _still_ hadn't learned, was beautiful for a child of the streets, and yet too plain to be a burgoise. That being what it was, it was very easy for an artist to convey her hidden beauty through carefully measured pencil strokes.

He had her kneeling on his bed with her hands locked behind her back so that her bruised elbows were on display. Her hair fell over her right shoulder, the same shoulder that the weak fabric of her dress fell over. This created almost a seductive sight, for the young girl's exposed torso was cleverly covered by hair. Grantaire made her wash her face so that her features were clear, but the slightest bit of dirt clung to her cheekbones and chin.

Grantaire finished the initial sketch mere minutes after he had begun. Looking at his work, he felt it would be a crime to change it too much for he felt as if it captured the essence of what he was opposed to. _And what Apollo believed in_. He nodded briefly at the girl to let her know that she could relax.

She did just that, sinking back into the soft pillows that were the highlight of his mediocre bed. Within an hour of Grantaire's careful, light coloring, she was lulled to sleep by the scratching sound and the musky scent of parchment and charcoal.

He considered waking her, but he didn't have the heart to do so. Looking at his little muse, he thought that she was most likely to die soon. Her bones were far too prominent and her skin, although tanned, had a sickly aura.

He pulled his quilt over the sleeping urchin and left a plate of bread and cheese for when she woke up. He slept in his living room that night, and when he awoke, _sa Patria_ was gone, leaving him with a completed sketch, an empty plate, and the slightest smell of the Seine.

* * *

**So, um, yes. This is my weird story. **

***Apollo would be jealous of me. I have Patria to behold in all her glory.**

**I need some Celtic girl's names. Anyone? Anyone? **

**UNEDITED AND... This is probably absolutely terrible, but review anyway?**


	2. The Musain's Table Cloths

**WOAH. The response to this story has been AMAZING. AND I HAVE A PLOT TWIST IN MIND AND IT MAY BE SLIGHTLY AWFUL, BUT I DON'T CARE.**

**Stagepageandscreen****- Thank you so much! I always liked Grantaire, and when I read the book I thought he was so interesting because he has all these amazing extra-curriculars that are unappreciated! (Apparently he's a dancer, an artist, a gymnast, and some other things that I can't list because my very annotated copy is… elsewhere) Thus, an idea of a story revolving around art came into being! Thanks for the review, hope I don't disappoint!**

**Almost an Actress****- *cough* I am in love with your profile picture *cough*. And I feel really honored that I am the only one! Wow, you're making me blush :) And thank you for the suggestion, although I think I already found a name!**

**TheIbis2010-**** Thank you! Although, as the story progresses, the girl and Enjolras' relationship will be a close second to our R's art :)**

**Frick6101719****- Thank you for all your help! It means a lot and it brightened my day when I saw your PM (*cough* Patron-Minette *cough*) I apologize for my sleep deprived self… I make really awful puns…**

**ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo****- You're not my favorite ConcreteAngel, you're my only… And, um, excuse me… WHAT?! **

* * *

Henri found himself looking at the drawing more than he was proud of. Each time he did, he noticed little things. He noticed how R had meticulously added a certain gleam to the girl's mysterious eyes, as if she was tensed and ready to run despite her relaxed smile.

Henri would give anything to know her name, not for any creepy purposes, for he was a forty-something burgoise and was married. Instead, he just wanted to be able to put a name to a face, and that face just happened to belong to a beauty from the past.

He received a letter several days after he bought the drawing, from the owner of the café Musain. Curious and overly excited, he broke the seal and opened the letter.

_Dear Monsiuer,_

_I have heard word that you are eager for more of the treasonous artist's paintings._

At this, Henri frowned, but he continued on.

_Well, I have in my possession some old table cloths on which the artist enjoyed drawing. I will sell them for ten francs apiece. There are two, and you will be quite pleased to know that they are almost completely covered in portraits of his friends and all have a date attached. There is one lovely one in particular that our waitress begged me to keep the day after he drew it. You can pay extra if you wish for that one as well. _

Henri personally found ten francs to be slightly much for a table cloth, but R fascinated him, and there was the slightest chance that he could find out more of the girl's story. The next day, he took a fiacre down to the café Musain and met the grinning owner. He payed a total of thirty-five francs for the three table cloths, and Henri couldn't help but feel like a fool as he returned to the fiacre, holding bundles of what appeared to be soiled cloth.

He returned home and laid out the works in his bedroom. The first one, chronologically, was labeled earlier than that of the girl. It was a series of faces. There were no shoulders, necks, or clothing items. Just faces. They were done in the correct style, and Henri felt even more foolish when his heart leapt in excitement.

The first face depicted a young man with strong features. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken too many times. He wore a smirk often associated with Pool players and dandies. He had hair that was worn in the popular style of flopping over his ears, and from the way R had shaded it, his hair was most likely a light brown. _Bahorel, the fighter, December 1830_.

The next was of a jolly youth with a handsome face and hair that came around his head in messy school-boy curls. His hair was shaded to be dark, and R had taken extraordinary caution to add a charming (and yet wicked) gleam to the man's eye. _Courfeyrac, the center, December 1830_.

Following 'Courfeyrac' was a depiction of someone who looked quite nervous. This one was different from the others, for it was drawn entirely as if from a cartoon. The boy (for surely he wasn't older than that) had marks drawn around him to suggest that he was shaking, and his mouth was pulled tight in a grimace. His eyes had a wild look to them and his nose was shaded to appear red. _Joly, the hypochrondaic, December 1830._

Then there was one in his usual style of a balding man. Despite his lack of hair, his facial features suggested someone of a relatively young age, specifically less than twenty-five. He had a fairly handsome face, and R had drawn the man so that his eyebrows were cinched in an apologetic manner. _L'aigle des Meux_, _the bad-luck, December 1830_.

After those, the faces became harder to see, as if someone had spilt something over the table. From the smudgy mess, a disappointed Henri was barely able to pick out a few features and a name here and there.

He saw a pair of glasses associated with the name 'Combeferre'. There was a somewhat clear portrait of a shy young man with girly features and a flower behind his ear, but no name to go along with it. There was a rather plain man whose face was half gone, and whose name began with a 'F'.

He moved to the second table cloth, and he started when they were all of the same man, and a familiar one at that. This man was depicted with a fiery passion emanating from his very being, and R had taken extra care to add dimension to his wild curls. The man's eyes were boring into Henri's, and although he _knew_ that it was naught but a drawing, he shivered. The man was shown speaking, smiling, frowning, and sitting. There was one doodle done in the cartoon style, with the man's curls bigger than his body and his arm tiny as he waved it about, saying, "_Grantaire, mis ce bouteille vers le bas!_ ". Also depicted was an unfamiliar man with a rather ugly face and a bottle clutched in his hand. He also had a paintbrush tucked behind his ear.

Henri inwardly cheered. He had found the full name of the artist. 'Grantaire'. His signature really was a terrible pun…The youth who R seemed to have a fascination with was called, simply, 'The Leader'. He remembered the label on the girl's portrait, and he knew this to be the Apollo he was referring to. However, he also now had a table cloth full of doodles of his deceased cousin….

He blinked back tears, for Henri Enjolras was not one to cry. He picked up the piece that the waitress wished to keep, and he smiled again.

At first glance, the picture was that of a pretty grisette punishing a deserving _gamine_. However, upon further inspection, he saw the features of the scolded girl to be identical to those of the 'Patria' depicted in his new favorite sketch. The girl was terrified looking, and her eyes appeared to be glaring at the artist, as if daring him to do something.

There was no name, but there was a date. _October, 1831_.

* * *

The meeting at the Musain was particularly heated that day. Enjolras had seen a child beaten by a police officer in the street, fueling him to be particularly angry at everyone and everything that dare opposed him. Grantaire, who was wise (although he rarely showed it), decided it was a good day to sit in the back corner and nurse his bottle of Brandy without saying a word.

Suddenly, interrupting Enjolras, there was a loud scuffle behind the closed door. Bahorel rose to his feet, ready to fight if need be. Enjolras raised a hand, though, and calmed the overly excited man. When at first thought the men believed it to be the police, instead they only heard women's voices.

When Courfeyrac realized this, he leapt to his feet and strode towards the door, far too ready to see two grisettes pull hair and bite soft skin. Combeferre rolled his eyes at his friend's antics, however no one stopped him when Courfeyrac opened the door to see the waitress, Louison, with a vice's hold on a young street urchin.

"_Je suis désole, Messieurs." _She said, blushing at the glorified sight of Courfeyrac. She tugged forwards the weak girl and pointed at her, saying, "This wench was listening in on your conversation! Couldn't have _that_, now could we?"

"Release her, she is one of us." Enjolras stated, coolly. There was an ice to his eyes that froze poor Louison, who was just doing her job. She mumbled another apology and released the girl before leaving and taking care to slam the door in her wake.

Grantaire, from memory, began sketching on a corner of the table cloth. His muse returned, and he was going to draw as much as he could. As he drew, he heard his Apollo ask, "What is your name?"

The girl, who could only be described as confused, murmured something that could not be heard by most of the men. Enjolras appeared not to care, for he pulled a chair for the girl, allowing her to sit down.

He took Bousset's plate away from him (he didn't even protest- it was just his luck) and placed it in front of the girl. After a few wary seconds, she dug in, her small fingers almost gently putting food in her mouth. She finished the plate with all the men's eyes on her, and she pulled away and stared at them fiercely.

Grantaire, finished with his sketch, stumbled over with his bottle. He took her soiled hand and kissed it, smiling at her. "It's lovely to see you again, _ma Cherie_."

"You're drunk, Monsieur." It was the first thing she'd clearly said, and it brought about a roaring laugh from several of Les Amis de l'ABC. Even Enjolras' marble façade cracked a smile.

"I believe I could get used to her." He said, and the girl looked up at him almost shyly before taking the bottle from Grantaire's hand and taking a deep swig right from it. This earned cheers from Courfeyrac and Bahorel.

"I do believe we can _all_ get used to her, _mon ami_," Courfeyrac said with a suggestive wink. "So, Grantaire, do tell, how do you know such an exquisite creature?"

"She allowed me to draw her portrait for an art project." He responded, simply. He was slightly annoyed that his bottle was taken from him, however he was pleased to have his little muse back. She had grown even skinnier since he last saw her, and she gained dark circles around her clear eyes. However, she seemed to have enjoyed washing up at his flat, for her clothing was considerably neater and her face mostly clear of grime. He felt a surge of pride that she felt enough self-preservation to try to stay clean, and he was the one who first made her do so.

"I _must_ see this portrait!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. The girl rolled her eyes and carefully wiped her hands on her skirt.

"You, Monsieur, are a pig." She said, prodding his chest. This also brought about a good amount of chuckling, and she turned red as if unused to the attention. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, _ma Cherie._" Grantaire assured her. "It's just enjoyable to watch our faults be pointed out so bluntly."

"Oh," She murmured, placing the bottle on the table and looking around carefully. "So am I really one of you, or-"

"By 'one of us', I meant a citizen of France." Said Enjolras. "However, it can't hurt to have someone who will willingly point out when one of us steps out of line. Consider yourself an honorary member."

"Actually, I am not a citizen of France," She confessed, grinning. "Ireland."

"That explains your accent!" Exclaimed Bossuet. "I was wondering where that pleasant tone came from."

"May we have your name, then?" Joly asked, and she nodded.

"You are the first to ask for my name in many years. _Je m'appelle _Ceara." Her cheeks blushed a lovely red shade when Jehan sighed at the romantic sound of it.

"That is beautiful. It means fiery red, does it not?" He asked, and she nodded.

"Well, Mademoiselle Ceara, it was a pleasure to meet you." Enjolras nodded at the odd group of students as he reached out to shake her hand as if she was a student like them. "Welcome to Les Amis de l'ABC."

* * *

**Translation- **_Grantaire, mis ce bouteille vers le bras!  
_**(Grantaire, put that bottle down!)**

**So, Ceara's name is pronounce like 'Kira'. I saw that the meaning was red (Enjy's favorite color), and although they probably meant red hair, oh well. **

**Review!**


	3. The Margins of a Textbook

**Stagepageandscreen****- Oh… I'm sorry to disappoint you! But thanks! And I have another one that's just as terrible… *warning alert***

**ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo****- GTFO.**

**TheIbis2010****- Thank you!**

**Big thanks to ****Almost an Actress ****and ****Frick6101719**** for the names! I've used some of your suggestions :) I've been having a ball with these obscure Irish names. I was thinking about throwing a Titanic reference in here and I was like… Yes.**

* * *

"Monsieur Enjolras?" The secretary asked. Henri looked up from his (rough) copy of the third table cloth and stood, ready to be received. He was shown into a grand office. An older man with laugh lines around his eyes stood up to address Henri with a bow.

The two men sat after a benevolent greeting. "Excusez-moi, Monsieur." Henri said to the university dean. "I detest myself that I found it so pressing to bother you with something as trivial as art-"

"Speak not of it!" The dean exclaimed, clasping his hands together neatly on his desk. "Anything for an Enjolras. If I am not mistaken, a relative of yours was a student around ten years ago… Oh, sore subject. My condolences."

Henri managed to push a smile through his grief-stricken grimace. "It is actually after an acquaintance of his that I am searching."

"Ah, yes, so you said. What was the name again?" He asked, opening his desk drawer to rummage through some papers. He looked up quickly- his brown eyes meeting Henri's gray- to let him know that he was indeed still listening.

"Grantaire. Of course, I do not know the boy's first name, for he signs with a pun to his last. Simply a capitol 'R'." Said Henri. "I was wondering if you might have any old projects of his, or maybe some more personal information- all for the sake of this young man's talent in art. I would hate for his works to be forgotten by history."

"Even better than old projects," The dean smiled, handing Henri an old, dusty textbook. Henri curiously wiped the dust off the cover, allowing him to read the title. 'Renaissance Art'. "_Petit_ Grantaire tended to use his textbooks as a medium for art –the little devil! - but after his tragic demise, I didn't have the heart to sue his family for the damages. Instead, I've kept it as my own. There is a story in there, and it is not in writing, I assure you. Although merely doodles, the art is nearly... melancholy. I suggest you look at these with a collector's eye rather than a cousin's." The dean suggested kindly. Henri nodded, nearly wordless with excitement.

"Thank you, monsieur. How much do you wish for it?" He asked, but the dean shook his head, gently pushing away Henri's outstretched coin purse.

"Nothing. This is quite nearly a family matter, you can consider it yours through inheritance." The old man's eyes widened in that moment that occurs when one remembers what one has forgotten. "And the young man's address! Of course," The dean scribbled a few numbers and _le nom de la rue_ before handing it to Henri. "The concierge is quite a lovely woman. It was from her that I received the late Philip's textbooks and final projects. I believe that her young daughter was somewhat infatuated with him, and she kept most of his things. Who knows? There may be some hidden treasures amongst his belongings."

* * *

Henri barely managed to wait until he got to his flat before eagerly opening the book and observing the first few sketches. In the first chapter, most of the drawings were of the young men that took the space of the first table cloth. There was one amusing sketch in particular that depicted the one Henri recognized as 'Courfeyrac' attempting to balance an overflowing bottle of wine on his head.

It was in the second chapter when Henri stumbled across a picture of the girl. It was just her from the shoulders up, and her face held an expression of intense concentration. Her eyes gleamed with a kind of interested light, as if she heard all the answers to the secrets of the world. Her little hand rested below her chin, a finger tracing up and barely brushing her lower lip. Her hair was slightly pulled back so that it twisted over one shoulder with naught but a strand falling over her right.

_November 1831, _Henri read. Then there was a large smudge, as if Grantaire had crossed something out and then tried to redeem himself by rubbing out the scratched portion. The only letter that Henri could pick from the smudge was a 'k'. After the mess, written carefully in neat letters, was _Ceara listening to Enjolras rant for the first time._

* * *

"She's returned!" Cried Courfeyrac, tossing a lean arm over the young girl's shoulders and leading her further inside the room. There were a few greetings and many raised glasses, but overall the welcome was much smaller than the jubilant Courfeyrac wished it to be. "I _said_, our lovely little Ceara has returned to our company!"

The greetings were louder this time, and even Enjolras glanced up from his work to nod in her direction. Grantaire stood, taking a deep gulp of bourbon- he was feeling for a sweeter taste that day- and approached the two. Ceara stirred uncomfortably under Courfeyrac's hanging arm, and Grantaire managed to ease her away.

"New dress." He said. It wasn't a question, instead an observation. Indeed, her wardrobe had made a change. Instead of her worn-through and white-washed rags, she wore a thread-bare dress that had a more modest neckline and sleeves that actually covered her upper arms. Although the fabric was thin and the dress itself came short of her ankles by a few inches, it provided much more coverage and overall seemed more comfortable.

"Well, monsieur, I came into a bit of money recently." Her kind, clear eyes darkened and Grantaire could tell that it was a touchy subject. Instead, he formally greeted her with a handshake.

"None of this 'Monsieur' business, Ceara. As our _fearless leader_ said on your last visit, you are now one of us." Grantaire insisted, making the slightest of blushes rise to the apples of her cheeks.

"Oi! Grantaire!" a bald headed man called from the main table. "Don't drag our newest member off to your precious corner, now. Share her, _mon ami_!"

Grantaire chuckled and offered his arm to her, which she jokingly took. Grantaire sat in the empty chair, leaving Ceara standing. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows and offered his lap, to which she responded by firmly sitting on his knee. Grantaire snickered at his friend's surprised expression- most women weren't so bold.

"So, _m'amie_. It occurs to me that we don't know your story." Joly smiled warmly to let her know that he wasn't intending to be demeaning. She smiled back. The candlelight was absorbed by her weather-darkened skin, and it seemed as if in reflecting a touch of the light, her body was emanating its own brilliance. "How did a young _lass_ such as yourself make it from Ireland to France?"

She swiped a corner of Bossuet's roll before answering (this drew a disconcerted mumble from the aforementioned party). "There isn't much to tell."

"Of course there is." A gentle face angled itself at her as a small-framed man spoke. "Everyone has a story, it's just a matter of telling it."

"Jehan, save your poetic nonsense for later. The lady has a story. Let her tell it!" Feuilly brushed off Jehan's sweet sentiment with a flick of his hand. The man-made worker had little time for obscurities and philosophies.

"Feuilly, do be kinder to Jehan. It was a deep statement. You should write that down." Combeferre said, and a few of them groaned when Jehan pulled out a little notebook and a small, silver pen and began to write.

"_Anyways_. Ceara, you may begin." Courfeyrac said from behind her.

Her smile hadn't broken since they began their banter, but now her face became more set, more determined. "Well, my parents perished of a disease, leaving only three Faerghan children. My sisters Tiernan and Llywelya passed as well as my elder brother Zephan. We were refused a home in the orphanage- too many children were left behind by this disease- so we hopped aboard a ship and came to Paris."

She finished her little story to disappointed looks. "How about some more details. What are the names of your surviving siblings? Where are they now? How did you learn French?" Jehan asked, and she sighed and fiddled with a bottle (how did she get it?)

"Well, my younger brother Dubhghlas got a labor job as a builder, despite his young age of twelve they hired him. _Ma petite soeur_… Her name is Aoibheann.I have not seen her for some time. We have been separated for around two years now. My mother was taught French as a child and she in turn taught me. Aoibheann and Dubhghlas were too young at the time… Does this satisfy your questions?"

She was saved from any further interrogation by the arrival of Bahorel. Enjolras looked up from his work and cleared his throat. The chattering ceased as everyone looked to the leader. Besides Ceara, Grantaire opened up a textbook. He ignored Enjolras' pointed glare, causing Bossuet to have to elbow him to alert the drunkard of his idol's disapproving look.

"If only you gave our cause as much focus as your art class, perhaps we would have more hope." His tone was condescending and disdainful, but Grantaire, if affected, didn't show it, instead retrieving a pencil from the pocket in his waistcoat.

Then Enjolras began to speak.

Grantaire, when Enjolras took a small break to take a gulp from his glass of water, spared a look over to his little companion that had somehow managed to sneakily slip into the lives of his friends. What he saw nearly made him spit up his gulp of wine. She was entranced- Grantaire was sure that if he were to move his hand in front of her face, she would not waver. Her eyes were open and with their strange clear color they seemed bottomless. She had a crease between her eyebrows that contrasted deeply with the slight expression that alleviated her smile into her hollow cheeks.

Grantaire found a page with a big enough margin, and he began to draw. His pencil found that it quite liked her small, frail hand and he put extraordinary detail into that. He made sure that he got the perfect image of her slightly curled fingers and they way her middle finger grew naturally crooked so that it bent slightly into her pointer finger. Just as he was drawing in her bold eyebrows, she gently brushed her hand over the drawing.

"You're really good." She said, awarding him a sweet smile. "Why do you enjoy drawing so much?"

"It gives me a reason." Grantaire answered. He didn't know if he meant a reason to _watch_. A reason to not wash his hands. A reason to _drink_. A reason to call himself a tortured artist. A reason to _be_.

He began his label, spelling her name 'Kiera'. She quickly grabbed the end of his pencil and pulled it away from the paper, shaking her head. "No, no. It's spelled C-E-A-R-A, Grantaire."

He looked up, shocked. "You can read?"

She rolled her eyes. "For someone who is a member of a People's Rights group, you are very judgmental." She said it lightly.

"To be fair, I'm here for the entertainment." He winked, before realizing that he just vandalized university property with incorrect spelling.

He cursed and tried to just scratch it out, but when that caused a major blemish in his textbook, he attempted to rub the led off the page, which only resulted in a larger stain.

Enjolras made a noise, causing the two to look up. "I'm sorry, was our meeting interrupting your conversation?"

"Your meeting was interrupting our conversation." She replied quickly, causing Combeferre to snort into his drink- he was met by an indignant stare from the leader- and Courfeyrac to emit a howl of laughter.

"Oh, Grantaire, _do_ keep your friend around more. She is a breath of fresh air!" Exclaimed Bossuet, who attempted to gently pat her shoulder, which resulted in the thin _gamine _falling off her chair. "Oh! I apologize."

She stood up quickly and brushed off her dress and Bossuet's apologies with a breezy smile. "It is fine, Monsieur. Nothing worse than I usually receive."

Enjolras heard this and frowned. It was a fleeting expression before his face returned to its usual smooth façade, but the blonde's admirer caught it. "Well, I somehow highly doubt that we are to do anything productive today." Enjolras said, retreating back into his corner. Joly and Bossuet took their leave, speaking of late nights and a mistress who couldn't be left alone in the apartment.

When Ceara heard the usage of 'our' and 'mistress', she frowned deeply. "Did they mean both their mistresses are waiting for them?"

"No, my dear, they literally mean 'their' mistress." Bahorel said, smirking at her shocked expression. "Indeed, it is a little taboo, but they are happy, and quite frankly Joly may need more than two people to keep an eye on him."

"It's not that it's… taboo… necessarily." She said, measuring her words carefully. "It's just that I'm jealous of this woman- that she can get two kind men to love her while I am stuck with-"

She stopped herself, her eyes darkening again and an unpleasant rosy hue creeping up her neck. Grantaire raised his bottle. "I'll drink to that."

The men agreed, each taking large drinks out of their respective containers. Enjolras, from his corner, murmured, "You'll drink to anything."

After a moment's consideration, Grantaire added, "I'll drink to that as well."

* * *

**So I've decided that along with the French words, I'm going to italicize a few English words that are intended to be spoken in English (While the dialogue is supposed to be French), like 'Lass'.**

**I freaked out because it started raining. On barricade day. I was at a competition (that got cancelled), and while we were leaving, my friend (ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo) started spinning and singing 'A Little Fall of Rain'. So that was my barricade day.**

**(Along with a Les Mis marathon in which we watched the movie, the 10****th**** anniversary, and watched various medleys on YouTube. I even had a tri-color rosette.)**

**Review!**


	4. Margins 2

**ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo****- BUT ONLY A LITTLE FALL OF RAIN WAS IN CONTEXT.**

**TheIbis2010****- Surprisingly, on the site where I found the names, an audio was provided and they are strangely easy to pronounce. It's just that the spelling is… *curse you Irish people***

**Punchy-**** THANK YOU FOR THE LONG REVIEW. It made me squeal :) It's strange; I saw Zephan on a list of Irish names….. Worst case scenario, I'll use the defense that it was a starting trend around that time period (everywhere, I believe) for children to be named with exotic names. Take Marius! That's like… Latin or something of the sort (Thinking of Gaius Marius). And the black-green definition will be relevant, as will Aoibheann's. That's so cool that it's your middle name! I saw the definition and when I said it aloud, it was just so beautiful :)**

**Kansas****- I hope this chapter satisfies you, at least a little bit. More of Éponine and Gav to come, I promise! This chapter won't be the end of their interactions. Although, I am trying to remain true to canon for the Brick, so Gav's interaction will be a touch less than Éponine's. **

**Stagepageandscreen****- I will go read that one-shot. And, don't cry, here you go :)**

**THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT! You all are absolutely amazing. Enjoy this… Interesting installment. More medium is to come, I promise. :)**

* * *

On the opposite page, there were two cartoon-style pictures labeled as if a pair, with the simple title of _Ceara's boy troubles, November 30, 1831_.

In the first installment, the girl was leaning over Enjolras' work, her long hair hanging like a curtain around the two of them. It was drawn almost crudely, as if Grantaire was desperate to capture the moment before it slipped into oblivion. Her hands were once gain extraordinarily detailed as a few of her fingers appeared to be slightly hooked into Enjolras' pockets, with his much larger hand capturing her wrist as if to shove her away. He looked slightly annoyed, but overall less tense than Henri was used to seeing his late cousin.

In the second, two column-like doodles inched down the paper as if emerging from the previous drawing although they were really the beginning of a new sketch. The columns were quite strange, for instead of being uniformly cut, they were sagging and plump with what appeared to be rolls of fat. As Henri's eyes traveled down, he saw the enormous feet that grounded the structures (or, rather, structure) and he vaguely recognized it as the Elephant monument in _Place de la Bastille_.

Following the rest of the image, he saw two contrasting figures standing as if about to fight. At first, he thought maybe that they were two ghosts, but it was not so. Upon closer inspection, the sketch depicted two young women at odds. One of them, with long, curly hair and the relatively modest dress, was clearly Ceara although her back was to Grantaire. The other woman was taller and, if possible, more emaciated. Her hair was straighter and each strand appeared to be a stick that stuck out of her skull. Her face was folded into a gaunt scowl that was altogether quite unattractive (especially in comparison with the smaller girl). The unfamiliar girl had on clothes that barely sufficed as rags; an old chemise that hung off one shoulder and a skirt that fell in tattered shreds around her ankles.

Above them, two thin legs appeared in between the elephant's, suggesting that someone was somehow in the belly of the best, watching the two. Henri frowned at this peculiar drawing; he couldn't understand it, and the title made no sense. Also, his brain was slightly muddled from seeing his cousin let _any_ woman so close to him.

* * *

Ceara waltzed into the back room on a relatively warm winter day. It couldn't be said that she entered doing anything other than dancing, for her graceful little steps hinted at little else. She had a pleased little smile on her face, and her hair was slightly mussed. Grantaire, with his excellent observational skills, had noticed her habit of running her fingers through her hair constantly (this was probably the only reason that her wild curls hadn't succumbed to the street's dirt and grime).

She walked right up to Enjolras, the only _Ami_ she hadn't directly bonded with. However, he tolerated her presence (which was much to her credit being as the only other woman on that list would be his mother). It came of much of a shock when she placed her hand on top of Enjolras' meticulous notes to get his attention. He looked up, the ink smudged on his cheek and his disheveled curls making him appear younger than usual.

"Yes?" He asked, expectantly. His fingers, stained black from the ink, drummed on the table as he waited for the question.

"I need money." She said, shortly. Her posture, with her stiff shoulders and her firmly planted feet, allowed little room for a decline.

The demand came as even more of a surprise. Ceara, despite her odd habits of dancing half the time and nervously being jovial the rest, had never gone so far as to do this. Of course, _Les Amis_ would willingly give any of their members money upon request (except maybe Bossuet or Grantaire, the former for his notorious lack of luck and the latter, well…).

"May I ask why?" He asked, uninterestedly turning his attention back to his work, barely noticing her creeping fingers as they went to his pocket. However, she wasn't quite as sneaky as she thought she was, and Enjolras firmly took a hold of her wrist. She kept the tops of her fingers buried in the fabric, as if to tell him that she could, but she wouldn't. She leaned forwards so that Enjolras was forced to look her in the eye, her hair pouring around their heads like a barrier. The bottoms of her curls danced across the paper, successfully distracting Enjolras.

(If you asked him, he would deny that she smelt pleasantly like champagne and earth, the most Parisian smell that exists)

"Please." She added a pout for good measure. Enjolras wrenched her fingers out of his pocket, trying to ignore the strange coldness of his palm without her wrist in it. He reached for his change purse, pulling out a five franc piece. Enjolras placed it almost roughly in her palm, pressing the coin hard enough to cause the slightest of pink indentations on her calloused hand.

"May I at least know why you need _my_ money?" Enjolras asked, as she was about to leave. She sent a flirty wink his way, swaying her slender hips for good measure.

"There's a boy." She stage-whispered, allowing the others to hear her loud and clear. This quite quickly ceased most conversations in the room but for Joly's incessant rambling about a strange series of bumps on his tongue. Bossuet promptly hit him over the head, which left Joly reeling about the possible side effects from cranial damage.

With that, she skipped out of the room, leaving nothing in her wake but a confused Enjolras and a group of silent friends.

"Grantaire, Bahorel, follow her." Enjolras ordered, roughly. It was almost as if he were trying to learn how to speak again.

(If anyone were to point out the beads of sweat on the nape of his neck, he would wipe it away with a shrug. If anyone further tried to imply that it was caused by Ceara's prior close encounter, he would deny it vehemently)

"Sure." Said Bahorel immediately. "A young _grisette_ alone with money at this time of the night… And who knows what this 'boy' has in store…" He smirked, the idler always ready for a fight.

Grantaire snorted at his friends' inability to tell that Ceara was an urchin who was more than capable of taking care of herself. Unfortunately, this little noise brought the attention of the marble statue to the drunk. He indicated Grantaire with the slightest flick of his glorious golden-curled head. "Bring Grantaire, Bahorel. He may not be useful in any way, but extra manpower couldn't hurt. The wine cask needs to go home anyway…"

"My dear statue," Grantaire ignored Enjolras' scowl at the nickname, "I do believe that you will miss me more than you expect."

"I doubt it. Now I suggest the two of you go before there is a new body in an alley."

A few of the men flinched at Enjolras' bluntness, and Bahorel left, dragging Grantaire (and his doodled-in textbook) out the café Musain's back room and into the darkness that awaited them outside.

* * *

The two men followed the flittering form of Ceara as she hurried through the streets. The November chill started to gain a hint of December's, thoroughly freezing Grantaire through his thin waistcoat and shirt. He clutched his worn book closer to his body and kept his bleary eyes peeled for the ghostly girl. Based on the balmy weather earlier in the day, he presumed that the mildness would carry on through the night. Of course, this is Grantaire, who would rather not admit that he's wrong.

She came to a stop in the most peculiar place. It appeared almost as if she was sight-seeing, for her casual demeanor and her light steps would make it seem as if she had nowhere to go. She tossed the coin into the air and caught it again, dancing sweetly around the legs of the Elephant. Finally, she got down to business and rapped her fist on one of the legs. There was a strange sound when she did so, suggesting that the monument was hollow. A high pitched shout came from… Inside the statue?

Two small legs stuck out from the belly, and Bahorel was sure that, if he was to go closer, he would see a hole in the monstrosity's stomach. Ceara's face was angled up at the owner of the legs, a smile on her face.

Suddenly a demon emerged from the shadows of the opposite legs, causing the closely-watching Bahorel to curse in surprise and Ceara to jump in shock. She braced herself against one of the other legs, clearly struggling to slow her breathing.

"Damn it, I can't hear anything. R, I'm moving closer. R?"

But Grantaire was already sketching the odd scene before he could forget it. His textbook was oddly balanced on his knee, which he attempted to keep aloft by propping his foot against the brick of the building behind him.

Bahorel shook his head at the drunk's odd antics and crept closer, keeping as close to the shadows as he could. Eventually he managed to clearly hear part of the conversation, and the new figure- another girl, apparently- was talking in criminal's argot to a confused Ceara.

"What do ya want from him? I've his company tonight." She was saying, and Bahorel nearly snickered at the absolute confusion on the smaller girl's face. The two were about the same age- older than fourteen and yet younger than seventeen, their age hard to tell from the hard times that they endured. In Ceara's credit, she managed to keep alive her subtle beauty more than the other, whose face was a gnarled, thin mask that was both fearsome and sad to behold. "Little scamp promised me tickets to the opera."

"Oi! 'Ponine! Be nice," The pair of legs spoke, and then a small, fair-haired boy jumped down between the two _gamines_. "How can I help you, stranger?" The boy asked in the children's unique brand of argot, which Ceara was considerably closer to being able to understand.

"I… Uh… I saw you give that little boy your shoes." She seemed suddenly uncomfortable with her fellow urchins' eyes upon her. "And I wanted to give you this." She handed him the coin. He observed it with a careful eye, aiming it this way and that to capture the city lights. He then placed it between his teeth and bit down, hard. He made a grunt in approval and he stuck the coin in his pocket. "Thought that you may be able to buy another pair."

"You gave away your shoes?" The other girl, Éponine, said with a hint of anger in her proud voice. "I bought those for you, you silly child!" She added the last bit as a term of endearment for the younger boy. To an outsider, it was unclear what the two's relationship was. Perhaps they were just friends, allies, accomplices. Perhaps, (and this was the truth) they were siblings who actually bothered to care for each other in their rough lives.

It ought to be noted that, in realizing that Ceara was unable to understand the rough language of the streets, Éponine easily transitioned into proper (and quite eloquent) French.

"They didn't fit right! Theyd've caused me more damage wearing them than not!" He said, defensively. The girl threw up her hands fondly.

"All the same, Gavroche! It's nearly winter, you stupid boy!" She scolded. He shrugged, taking a hold of his sister's elbow as if she was a fine lady, and sent Ceara a 'thanks' before dragging the girl away into the Parisian night. Ceara watched for a moment before turning and walking back through the dingy streets.

Bahorel and Grantaire, still under orders to follow her until she got to a safe place, casually trailed her until they came to a particularly sleazy part of Paris' underbelly. The two men exchanged looks, and Bahorel eagerly cracked his knuckles and Grantaire tucked away his book. Both of them were boxers, after all. It was then that she suddenly ducked into a nearby alley as if pulled. They sped up, remembering Enjolras' haunting threat.

Then a scream pierced the air and they started running to where she disappeared. Upon entering the alley, however, they simply saw her by herself, bent over as if in terrible pain.

"Are you all right?" Asked Grantaire, sobering considerably in this moment of distress. Bahorel began looking around for the culprit. It was only when Grantaire got really close that he noticed something key to her behavior.

She was bent around her hands, which were clutching her stomach with a strange desperation. Tears ran down the corners of her eyes and her hair concealed the rest of her face. She shook with something that was assumed to be sobs.

Unsure of what to do with a crying woman, Grantaire eased himself close and reached out a shaking hand to pat her back or something of the sort (isn't that what one is to do in this situation?). As if sensing his approaching hand, Ceara stood up straight with severe difficulty. Bahorel, who was still watching from a safe distance, evaluating the scene and which direction a potential criminal could have run, was the one who stated what neither of them bothered to consider.

"Are you…. Are you _laughing_?"

She nodded, the tears still streaming down her eyes. She was alight with the ruddy glow of someone who hadn't laughed in a long time. She took gulps of air and managed to calm down, although a smile still twitched at the corners of her mouth and her eyes were bright in the dark alleyway.

"Tell Enjolras not to have anyone follow me again. I am a big girl, _Messieurs_. I can watch out for myself."

With that, she eased away. Enjolras wouldn't be happy, but what could they do to stop her?

* * *

**We meet the Thernardiers! I'm sorry for describing Éponine like that, but she will make that transition where she becomes beautiful. I promise. And then she and Courfy will become close.. and… yeah.**

**I know where this story is heading, and I have a vague idea for other drawings, but if any of you have requests, just send them in through a review! Je vous adore :)**


	5. The Back Cover

**ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo****- STFU. And, haha, maybe... I actually really like that. Chapter after next, because I want to have some Ceara/Bahorel brother/sisterish things because it's relevant in the end. **

**TheIbis2010****- I read a story with Cosette/Courfeyrac and I fell in absolute love with Courfy. And, I tend to be in the habit of shipping Eponine with my current favorite barricade boy (That was Grantaire for a long time... IN a somewhat platonic-we-bondover-unrequited-love-sorta-thing. Thanks for the compliments! I usually am TERRIBLE at writing OC's, so that means a lot. :)**

**Kansas****- Thank you so much! I love Gavroche too, by the way. (I was going to do a Ceara's little sister/Gavroche thing but then this chapter happened)**

**stagepageandscreen****- Tell my parents and professors that, please? ;)**

**Guest****- YOU READ MY MIND.**

* * *

Henri flipped through the rest of the textbook, passing over random sketches of everyday objects. There were several drawings of Ceara and random Amis, alas there were no labels telling of the dates. Along with these, there were several almost risqué sketches of Enjolras, and Henri found his neck prickling with a blush from some of the compromising positions his blond cousin had been drawn in.

He scanned through the last pages in the textbook with a vague interest. Nothing struck as particularly special in his memory, and those last few images were obviously mere more than doodles to Grantaire. They were obviously drawn with his unique skill, but carelessly so. He was ready to close the book and make plans to contact Grantaire's concierge in the morning when he came to the end of the book and stopped. The room seemed to drop several degrees. There was a full-blown painting on the back cover of the textbook, and it procured an image that was sure to haunt Henri.

Based on some of the rounder lines, Henri could tell that Grantaire painted it from memory. The colors were of a morbidly dark palate. Since it was the first fully colored work of Grantaire's that Henri had seen, he was shocked at the roughness with which the paint was applied, as if Grantaire was using the paintbrush as a pencil. It depicted a dark street in winter time, with gray snow dotting the painting. Snow of the same dismal color covered the cobblestones. Henri's eyes followed the snow, until his eyes hit something that he started at. It wasn't snow, nor was it part of the road. Only when he followed the object up did he realize that it was a bare foot, belonging to someone who melted into Grantaire's painted shadows. From the cut of the dress that was just barely visible, Henri recognized the person.

The macabre scene was completed with the terrible background that consisted of the black, starless sky and a single light in the entire image, a street lamp in the near distance that was just enough light to differentiate Ceara from the shadows that appeared to have small arms and teeth, reaching out to grab at the poor girl who stood in the stance of one in intense thought. There was no clever title on this one, instead a date scribbled as an afterthought in the bottom corner. In white pastel, it was written:

_December, 1831._

* * *

There are moments in one's life in which despair overcomes all else and swallows someone's heart, damning said organ for no set amount of time. This form of grief freezes one's muscles and stiffens their joints, causing them to appear indifferent and uncaring, unable to create emotion. It is different from a normal mourning, in which tears are shed and curses are uttered to the heavens. No. Emotional pain that comes from shock is almost worse, for the mourner believes that they are dysfunctional and unable to show their remorse. It mixes guilt with grief, and once this strange stage fades, the normal one replaces it. Some have been known to never leave it. Their eyes become dead and their faces stone.

This was Ceara's emotional state when Feuilly spotted her on _rue de la Chanverrie_. At first he wasn't sure that it was indeed her, for she appeared almost a spector amongst the flurries that floated from the cloudy night sky. As he crept closer, though, and her image neither wavered nor vanished, he hurried his steps to speak with her. For it was past dark and she was standing dangerously near a wine shop from which drunken men could emerge and harass her.

Feuilly was notably humble and easily capable of affection. He and Ceara bonded over their shared status as orphans, and he was quite appalled when she mentioned that she was no true citizen of either Ireland or France. She was an illegal immigrant to France, having crossed the sea by stowing away with her siblings aboard a merchant's ship. Her papers were destroyed in a chaotic village fire in which their church was decimated.

Although Feuilly was not a rich man by any means (he worked long hours for his three francs a day), he had a coat and a small garret on a side street by the Seine. He was shocked that his friend stood in the snow with neither coat nor shoes. He'd always assumed that she was an apprentice for a seamstress or a washerwoman, but it now became clear to him that his fellow orphan was but a street girl, alone in the cold on a day so close to Christmas.

He came up to her and laid a careful hand on her shoulder. To his surprise, she did not flinch or even turn towards him. She made no move to acknowledge his presence, which added to Feuilly's worry. And, underneath his gloved hand, he could feel her small body trembling from something other than the cold. In the dim light of the nearby street lamp, her lips were discolored and her face pale.

"Ceara? Come, we must bring you inside. It is far too cold."

But when he tried to move her, she stood fast, refusing to move her swollen, red feet from their spot in the slushy snow. It was only then that he followed her blank gaze to the gutter, and his heart ached with sudden realization. He gasped, just a little, for it was a terrifying sight to behold. And he knew then that she needed more to urge her to move.

* * *

The door to the back room opened again, revealing neither Ceara nor Courfeyrac (the most notably present members who were not currently in attendance), but Feuilly, the fan-maker. About to chastise his worker friend for his late arrival, Enjolras paused to frown slightly at the sad look on Feuilly's face.

"What has happened?" Asked Enjolras. "Are the police on our tracks? I heard they arrested our brothers down in the Latin Quarter." The blond man's face, already fair, turned an even lighter shade at this terrible thought. How could they hope to accomplish something if they are in _La Force_?

"_Non_, _mon ami_." Feuilly answered in a tone that he meant to sound reassuring. However, he rather sounded quite nervous and rushed, such a demeanor that a forced smile presents. "Although, one of our members has encountered a slight… altercation… by the Corinth."

"Has Courfeyrac been thrown out by his mistress? Is he drinking his sorrows like a good man?" Grantaire asked, and Enjolras shot him a sharp look.

"Grantaire," Said he who was made of marble, "I would appreciate if you could attempt to be more serious."

"Alas, Apollo, if one is not merry and drunk than one is cynical! And have you not expressed extraordinary disinterest towards my latter behavior?"

"It is Ceara." Feuilly said, his voice carrying through the chatter. Grantaire was the first one who really reacted, he stood clumsily, grasping onto the nearest solid object to support him. Unfortunately, that happened to be Enjolras, who snarled and shrugged him away. The blonde's face had paled even more upon hearing her name.

"Is she…" Jehan's voice trembled as he asked. Feuilly shook his head, and Joly very quickly joined in the raising concerns over their youngest member's health.

"Sick? Has she come down with consumption? Influenza? Pneumonia? Hypothermia?" Joly rattled off the various illnesses that one could acquire during the colder months. However, Feuilly just shook his head, a dusting of snow lightly clouding from his sandy hair.

"No, but she may catch something. She is just standing in the cold." Feuilly's voice shook, remembering what lay in the gutter. "And I worry for what thoughts she may be thinking."

"And you did not force her to come?" Bahorel, always the one to resort to the physical means to accomplish things, was taken down with a shake from Feuilly.

"I feel as though she would break under my touch. And," He looked to Enjolras and Combeferre, the two who thought most clearly in times of need. "She has neither shoes nor coat."

"I shall go speak with her. Wine cask, we may need you." Enjolras shot back, and went to leave. First he exchanged a few words with Combeferre over the nature of the meeting. (They needed more ammunition, which was increasdingly more difficult to come by as the govermnat became aware of ther plans)

"And why, may I ask, am I required for such a noble quest?" Grantaire took a deep gulp of bourbon, and Feuilly pointed at it.

"She will most certainly need a drink."

"Also, you were the one of us she met first. How your first impression did not drive her out of France, I do not know." Enjolras grimaced in something that was probably intended to be a smile. As the three men exited the back room, Bossuet murmured something to Joly.

"Did Marcel Enjolras just tell a joke?"

Meanwhile, at the entrance to the café, Enjolras stopped Feuilly from joining them with a simple raised hand.

"Feuilly, do not be simple minded," (One must occasionally cringe at Enjolras' bluntness and inability to tell when he has crossed the line) "You have just come from a long walk. Rest." Before kind-hearted Feuilly could protest, Enjolras stopped him again by gently tugging on the collar of his coat. "If you wish to assist us, you could lend your coat. She has no protection, she will need something."

Feuilly agreed, albeit reluctantly, and retreated back to the rest of the group. Enjolras and Grantaire, the most contrasting pair on the streets that night, left on a mission to find a broken girl with her mind in the grave.

* * *

There she was, on _rue de la Chanverrie_, just as Feuilly said. Enjolras stopped at the sight of such a small, slender (only then did he consider that perhaps she was skinny from lack of food) girl standing with little to no protection against the freezing winds. He shifted Feuilly's coat in his arms, ready to confront her for being so silly to have them all worried.

(If someone tried to say that he was the one who worried the most, he would frown and ignore the question because there was no way he could downright refuse that assumption)

However, Grantaire drunkenly grabbed his bare wrist (he hadn't time to put on his gloves when he left).

"Do not stir her." It sounded like a slurred warning, but for what?

"_Excusez-moi_?" Enjolras asked. Grantaire wisely refused the pointed use of the formal verb tense and elaborated on his observations.

"She is mourning someone. Her stance is hopeless, and she is shaking not from cold but from restrained sobs. It is unadvisable to approach a crying woman, for how does one comfort a beautiful, sad creature? Pretty things aren't meant to be sad, it distracts from their appeal, which makes women more self-aware in their despair. Thus being, a man in their crying presence will incense them to the point of unbelievable frustration." Grantaire said, but Enjolras rolled his eyes (as blue as Ceara's lips were at that point).

"She is no more than a girl." And with that, Enjolras approached her and, without saying a word, he wrapped Feuilly's coat around her shoulders and gently rubbed her arms through the thin fabric of her dress sleeves. (He was no expert in affectionate gestures, but he had once seen his father do such a thing when his mother complained of the cold on a long carriage trip) She leaned ever so slightly into his caressing hands, which he took to be a good sign.

Ceara's eyes were fixated on a small form that Enjolras took the time to observe, and his blood ran cold. Had he not had her under his hands at that moment, he would have believed that it was his companion laying in the gutter like a piece of discarded trash. Indeed, Ceara was staring at the stiff body of a young girl.

Past the first glance, the differences became clearer to Enjolras. The dead girl's hair was golden once, although it had since been dulled by grime and death. Her build was taller, lither. Ceara, had she been fed, would have been petite and perhaps even curvy. Also, the other was notably younger, by at least three years. However, they had the same bold cheekbones, the same chin, and the same cupid's bow lips. Indeed, it was far too easy for Enjolras to imagine the child's body as Ceara's. It did not help matters that Ceara's lips were steadily growing to be the same terrifying shade of blue, and her skin was nearly as sickly.

The first stage of mourning passed with a single, broken sob, and she nearly collapsed, but Enjolras uncomfortably supported her. She managed to hold herself together after the initial outburst. She stood straight with much trouble, and her face was gaining a red shade. Tears slipped down her cheeks and her lip quivered. Ceara appeared to be tougher than they expected, for a woman. She managed to force her face into a blank mask that could make the marble man himself jealous.

"Come." Enjolras said, gently. "It will not help if you catch your death as well."

A few feet away, Grantaire cringed. But his blunt-edged words appeared to have the right effect, for Ceara's numb feet slowly turned so that she was facing Enjolras's wide expanse of a chest. There she clung to him, creating a surprised expression on his face that many would pay a fortune to see. T was from the recesses of Enjolras's overcoat that she finally spoke.

"_Monsieur_?" Her voice cracked, revealing her inner turmoil. Against his better judgment, Enjolras gingerly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to his body. (For heat, he told himself. It wouldn't due for Ceara to catch a bout of Pneumonia). "She was my sister."

(If one tried to imply that Enjolras enjoyed her closeness, he would shrug and say that it was nothing. But really, it was _everything_.)

"I know." Answered Enjolras. I know."

* * *

Enjolras was none too pleased with his men's distraction from plans for _La Republique_, but he couldn't very well stop them without feeling like a terrible human being. He was just as unpleased with the copious amounts of whisky that Ceara was consuming at an alarming rate.

"What was her name again?" Jehan asked, gently. "Evelyn?"

"Aoibheann." She corrected, her voice just a touch thicker than usual. "Aoibheann Niamh, isn't that beautiful?"

"Yes, it truly is." Jehan was the best at comforting. He was so gentle spoken and he understood woman and children better than the rest. After all, Ceara was a mix of the two. Despite her street-gained wisdom, she was still younger than seventeen.

"She was always the pretty one…" Ceara continued, a strange smile ghosting her features, resulting in a rather grotesque sight. "She was always so healthy looking, rosy almost. Ironic, _non_? I haven't seen her in two years; even in death she remained so damn _pretty_."

"How old was Aoibheann when she passed?" Courfeyrac asked, and Ceara shot him a fleeting nasty glare, thinking he was dwelling on what could have happened with her younger sister. When she saw his green eyes, usually so mischievous, widened in sincerity, she sighed and took another deep gulp of whisky.

"She would have been thirteen tomorrow." Ceara said, softy. There was a whoosh-ing sound as some of them exhaled slowly, at the same time.

None of them took any notice of the drunk in the corner. Enjolras and Combeferre were pouring over notes, some for class and some for the new France. Bahorel had left after giving Ceara a well-meaning hair-ruffle which actually did relax her features a touch. The rest were attempting comfort, none besides Feuilly having truly lost a loved one before.

In the meantime, Grantaire was making a rough sketch on the inside of his textbook…

* * *

**I'm sorry if this is bad, I didn't read it over because I'm on the job hunt and I wanted to get this posted before bed and I have to get up by six and I'm just DONE with summer and ready for classes because then I'm funded for food and stuff.**


	6. The Notebook

**TheIbis2010****- Yes! I wanted to try and include at least one suggested name from each reader. JAnd thank you so much! This chapter is a mix of angst and fluff, and Enjolras gets to see a darker part. Hope you enjoy! And as for Éponine, she shall be making an appearance sooner than you think ;)**

**Stagepageandscreen****- Aw thank you! Although, as my fic's guardian, I request a proper courting if you truly love it… ;)**

**ConcreteAngel(RoxHerHalo****)- I… Urhm… whatever are you talking about?**

**So, I decided to skip the Ceara/Bahorel friendship thing. Since this is more of a series of connected vignettes than a story, I don't think that will affect much. I'll just include it somehow…**

* * *

Henri went to bed that night with the painting etched in the very fabric of his brain. Even with his beautiful wife gently tucked in his arms, he felt Ceara's loneliness as if it seeped through the painting and into his life. The next morning, as the gray light came in through the window, his beloved was gone (She worked at the Opera) and he was alone, truly feeling it as he hadn't before.

He looked to the front page of the textbook, on which the university dean had scribbled the late Grantaire's address. He was scared by his own desperation to leave as quickly as he could. Henri had to force himself to eat breakfast and change into proper clothes, otherwise he'd have left with an empty stomach and his night shirt barely covering his knees. Why was this artwork overtaking his life? Why did he feel such a need to discover more until the story was complete?

It made little sense, and it kind of terrified Henri. As he sat at his empty table with a barely touched meal in front of him, he wrote in his journal of his findings and what he'd picked of the story so far. As his pen made loops and lines on the paper, his mind wandered. Before he realized it, his hand guided the ink off the page and onto the mahogany table. He sighed and quickly ripped a page in his notebook and wrote a brief note to the maid, telling her of what he'd done and that it needed to be handled before Madame Enjolras came home. His wife had a feisty streak, one that was prominent when they were wed seven years prior, and he had no wish to be on the receiving end of her anger.

Part of him wanted to annoy her, just to see a shard of the girl he fell in love with. Lately she'd become withdrawn and sad, and he could do nothing to make her happy. He knew she wanted a child and that he was unable to produce one. She always said that 'Three is a crowd, and crowds are my life'. Henri felt very much the pathetic husband for being unable to give his wife what women were expected to possess.

With much on his mind and a weight on his heart, Henri packed a schoolboy's knapsack with all of Grantaire's important works. In the case of the table cloths, he'd roughly copied the drawings to the best of his ability and tucked the copies in the pages of the textbook, taking care not to smudge anything. He stepped onto the street, stopping for a moment to deposit a few coins into a beggar girl's outstretched hand. As he met her eyes with a kind smile, he did a double take. Her eyes, with a gleam of mischievous intent in them, seemed horribly familiar, as well as her strangely textured hair.

A beautiful _grisette_ came up to the two of them and began scolding the child (who was just short of ten years) in argot. Then she looked up at Henri, and once again he was struck with a strange sense of déjà-vu. Her hair caught the early morning light and allowed red-ish tints to be cast from her waves.

"My apologies, _Monsieur._ We are not in desperate need for money, my daughter just enjoys…" The woman trailed off, glancing up at Henri and narrowing her sharp eyes. "Say, do I know you from somewhere?"

"I do not believe we have met, _Mademoiselle_." Henri reached out his hand, and the woman stared at it as if she was surprised that he dared to touch someone of such a lower social ranking. With much hesitance, she delicately shook his hand, her calloused fingers feeling strange against his smooth hands. "I am _Monsieur_ Enjolras."

Shock flittered across her face, her eyes widening to a comical size and her jaw going slack. In wonder, she raised her hand as if to touch his face before pulling back. She bent uncomfortably close to him, scrunching her nose as she inspected his face with care. "_Non_, it couldn't be the same one." As she mused aloud, she gently eased her slightly grimy child closer to her.

"And your name?" Henri was determined to know from where he knew this woman.

"_Madame_ Montparnasse." She seemed to withhold a cringe at the sound of her surname, and with one last tight smile in Henri's direction, she scooped the coins out of the child's hands and shoved them back at Henri. He shook his head and nodded towards the pair's gaunt cheeks.

"You need it more than I."

He left them on the corner and racked his mind for a Montparnasse. Alas, he could think of nobody with that surname. Cursing himself for not pursuing the woman's first name, he continued on his way to the address listed on the inside of the textbook.

* * *

"Well, here ya go." The concierge's daughter was about ten years Henri's junior, and she led him to an attic space and pointed roughly at a collection of trunks. "Have fun. Had a couple of other _Messieurs_ go through it a good eight years ago, give 'r take a few."

Henri thanked her and pressed a tip into the _Mademoiselle's _hand. She gave him a half-toothless grin and disappeared to find her mother to celebrate her good luck.

After a good few minutes of rummaging through boxes of clothing and shoes, Henri came to a trunk that seemed to be heavier than the rest. He opened the top with the slightest bit of exertion (men of Henri's age shouldn't have been able to do such activities for so long, but the Enjolras family was wide known for their fitness). Glancing inside, he saw neat stacks of books, some of which (judging from the binding) were notebooks.

He sifted through the piles carefully, and his search turned positive results. He found three canvas paintings that were wrapped in linen. Those he handled gingerly, afraid that the paint might chip or the canvas might break. He also got his hands on two notebooks, one thinner than the other. In the thin notebook, the pages were filled with Grantaire's messy scrawl. In the other…

Henri opened it to the sight of his cousin, wrapped in nothing but the French flag. He grinned grimly. Jackpot.

He botherned not to return home to look through the notebook, and instead sat with his back against one of the trunks. He flipped the pages, noting a strange aspect to most of Grantaire's pictures. The young artist had the oddest quirk of adding darkness to most of his sketches. He drew Parisian scenes, and one of them was dark around the edges, giving Henri a disconcerted feeling. Grantaire showed a couple strolling by the Seine, their arms tenderly linked. The shadows around the happy pair seemed crouched and ready to pounce, as though there were living monsters hidden in the dark.

However, Henri came upon a sketch that he found unique and beautiful. Different from the other depictions of Paris, the scene was of the poorer part of Paris. The children dancing in the corners were gaunt and ragged, their limbs mere more than bones. Despite their condition, as shown by a laughing little boy in the center, they were happy. Grantaire delved into the unbroken innocence of the Parisian _gamins' _souls.

As the dates on the sketches got closer to 1832, Henri looked through them with a gaining impatience. He passed several drawings of _Les Amis de l'ABC_, and a couple of the Musain's scullery wench, Louison. Finally, he came across a few that continued the story to a certain degree.

The first one was of Ceara standing in front of Bahorel, her slim body seeming even smaller in comparison with his broad stance and stocky build. His thick arms wrapped around her and her small, square feet were kicking in the air, laughter in their faces. It was a fond gesture, not unlike that of father and daughter or brother and sister. The date was of late December, placing the event as shortly after that on the back cover of Grantaire's textbook.

Henri smiled at the touching scene and then flipped to the next one, which was slightly more detailed. It showed Ceara asleep. Henri could not tell where she was, but her head was resting in the crook of her elbow instead of on a pillow. Her shaggy hair tumbled over her arms and shoulders, a single strand falling over her cheek and then curling down beneath her chin. Her eyes were closed peacefully. Her full lips were ever so slightly upturned in a sleepy smile that elevated the mood of the piece of artwork. Her nose was tinged red with colored charcoal, and the air around her was tinted as if there was a sun between her and Grantaire, enveloping the girl in golden hues and yellow rays.

Once again, Grantaire made an exception in a drawing. There was no darkness in this picture besides the shadows of her long eyelashes and her hair. Henri carefully ran his smooth fingertips over Ceara's lightly clenched fingers. He wondered where she could have been.

_January 1832_.

* * *

The meeting broke fairly early, more so than Enjolras would have liked. He could feel the electric charge in the air as the incitement for rebellion drew near. He knew not what the disastrous event would be that would become their incentive, but he knew it was gradually approaching. However, the cold months made people lazy, for all they wished was to delve beneath quilts with their beloved and eat hearty food. Thus being, Enjolras was fairly lucky that he managed to keep his friends focused for more than an hour. Enjolras was one of few that actually enjoyed France's winter, therefore placing him at a more industrious state than the rest.

It barely took any time for the remaining _Amis_ to leave the café's back room in favor for a warmer, more loving setting. Combeferre, before returning to his home, stopped to speak with Enjolras, who still had papers spread before him as he attempted to redeem the evening by completing as much work as he could.

"_Mon ami_, you must rest. You will work yourself to death, I believe." Combeferre said, gently. Enjolras glanced back up with charged blue eyes and shook his head dismissively.

"Beliefs are nothing but what could be. I must stay in sight of reality." He responded, and Combeferre laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder before asking what a few of the _Ami_'s had been wondering.

"Have you seen Ceara around? The air gets colder each day, and we've no way to be sure of her safety."

Enjolras sighed, knowing now that he was to get no more work done. For that wondering thought had been eating at him since she neglected to enter after Bahorel, who was always the last to arrive. Remembering how she'd stood in the snow for hours and said it was nothing, it was common knowledge amongst the group (specifically Joly) that she had little care for her own health, so they took that as a responsibility to ensure that she was healthy. She was slightly spoiled as such, for Courfeyrac and Grantaire would supply her with alcohol and the others with food. Joly, much to Ceara's amusement, took it upon himself to give her a check-up every meeting. Enjolras was the one she was most grateful to, for he did none of these things which made her feel somewhat uncomfortable.

Due to many voyages to visit families for New Year's, _Les Amis de l'ABC _hadn't met for weeks, and their worry increased when their _petite sœur _(nicknamed as such by Bossuet, _L'aigle des Meux_ as he was) made no appearance after their hiatuses.

"_Non,_ have you spoken with Grantaire about it? Is he not the one who is closest to her?" Enjolras asked, doing his best to maintain a cool tone. Combeferre, the one with which he was closest, could tell something was amiss and raised an eyebrow but said nothing of it.

"Well, Grantaire is currently… Otherwise occupied," Indeed, the local drunkard was unconscious under the table, "and I have reason to believe that she is closest with Bahorel, who likewise asked. Enjolras, you cannot hope for followers if you do not care enough for your own members." Combeferre smirked when Enjolras' head snapped up.

"I do care! Of course I care, she is… Oh." Enjolras saw the teasing in Combeferre's eyes, and he understood that his friend intended to bristle him.

"Take care, Enjolras."

"_Au revoir,_ Combeferre."

* * *

Enjolras left the café in the darkest time of night, wrapping his overcoat around himself in response to the biting air. It had been a day with a pale blue sky but no warmth, providing Paris with an icy feeling that reminded many of Enjolras' eyes.

He walked slowly to let his mind rest. When he passed by a nearby bakery, he heard sniffling in the alley. Usually he would walk right by, but he had extra sous burning holes in his pocket, and he intended to put that money to better use than frivolities. So he followed the noise to the bakery's side door. There he saw a female form curled in the doorway with only a thin shawl as protection.

Enjolras knelt down and frowned when the girl didn't react to his coming nearer. He carefully brushed frozen hair from her eyes and started at what lay beneath. It was a familiar, sleeping face. He shrugged off his coat without a second thought. As he draped the thicker fabric over Ceara, she whimpered in her sleep and her arms twitched slightly. Her skin was icy to the touch and Enjolras was sickened at the realization that she was too cold to move. Her nose was an unhealthy red color and her fingers were tinged with purple. She had a few bruises on her arms from sources that Enjolras was scared to know.

It didn't take him long to figure what to do. He gently placed the skinny (in the time she hadn't seen _Les Amis_, she'd lost what little amount of fat made her seem slender in opposition to emaciated), freezing girl into his arms. She was frighteningly light and he was filled with urgency to get her to a safe, warm place. To his chagrin, his flat was several blocks away.

Thinking suddenly of the Musain, he turned back and hurried to the café. He pushed through the door and past a protesting Louison ("_Monsieur_ Enjolras, the café is closed. Whatever are you doing with that girl? _Monsieur_!). He went into the back room and lit several candles, rekindling the light in the room. He laid Ceara on the table, and she began to shake violently (based on what little medical knowledge Enjolras had, he figured that chills were better than her prior paralytic state.)

He discarded his jacket as well and eased it under her, hoping to make the table feel kinder on her body. He couldn't believe that such a surface was an ideal place to rest. However, a smile emerged on her face as her shivering gradually stopped and she nestled into the wood as if it was the most comfortable place she'd slept in a while. As far as Enjolras knew, it was.

He carefully felt at her damp hair and brushed the wet strands behind her ear. Without knowing it, her head moved to meet his palm and he leapt back as if shocked. Suddenly very uncomfortable with the fact that he'd been watching a young girl sleep; Enjolras relit the stove, fully restoring the room's previous warmth. Once satisfied with the environment, Enjolras collapsed in his chair, too tired to leave again.

His hand unconsciously found the small of Ceara's back, and he rested it there, as if by doing so he could keep her safe. He fell asleep with his head on the table. At some point, Ceara awoke and pulled Enjolras's arm further over her waist so that it almost seemed as though the marble man was cuddling with a _gamine_.

Grantaire woke in the morning and saw that strange sight. He ignored the pull in his heart when he saw that Enjolras stayed by the side of a young woman he'd just met when he always left Grantaire alone in the cold room. He managed to ignore it because he focused on the way the stubby candles reflected off Ceara's shaggy curls. He had left his notebook there at the last meeting, and he pulled it out and began to draw…

* * *

**Do you have any idea who the woman was? ****_I_**** think it's obvious, but as the author I can't say anything!**


	7. Love and Change

**Dracolover****- Thank you! That means so much :)**

**TheIbis****- I'm not saying yes and I'm not saying no ;) And, concerning Enjy, really? In almost every fic, (correction: ****_every_**** fic) he is kind of the hero dude. Usually to Eponine, but we can make an exception, hmm? Speaking of Mamselle T, I hope you like this chapter! It strongly features Eponine (and a drunk Courfeyrac, which is always fun)**

**SPAS****- Thank you! It's fun, actually, having two different story lines to work with. Grantaire's just a heart-breaking character, if we're being honest here. And I kinda like Montparnasse! I may be the only one, but I thought his interactions with Gavroche were almost cute. He's a little bit of a pig, but I don't mind him :)**

**ConcreteAngel****- I'm stealing another, just so you know. I like making you confused! I like it very much! **

**So, in this chapter, another character will be introduced in a... different way, because I feel as though fanfics neglect this character's future. Also, the dates of the whole Gorbeau attack has been changed. Pretend that happened a hell of a lot earlier, so Eponine finds Marius in February (It's April in the book, but I want to give time to the C/E story line).**

* * *

"Do you not remember how I asked for your hand?" Henri asked, fondly stroking his wife's gloved hand where it rested in the crook of his elbow. She looked up at him. Her tired eyes had the slightest gleam of remembrance.

"Do you not remember how I denied you that request?" She laughed her tinkling laugh that he'd missed so much.

"How could I forget? You pushed me into the fountain!" Henri exclaimed, indicating the fountain where the aforementioned event occurred. "And cursed me for being so 'insensitive'." He smiled serenely and cupped her cheek in his hand. She leaned into his touch slightly, sighing. Her long lashes hid her silver, fortune-teller's eyes and the usual rosiness in her cheeks was absent, leaving her with a sickly look about her despite her relatively young age of thirty.

"It is so close to that day," She mused, looking up at the warm sun that covered the Luxemburg gardens with its warm light.

"How are you feeling, _ma petite_?" He asked, kindly. She managed a wan smile and nodded at the notches etched into one of the marble benches. (A work by one of the gamines to remember the tragic fall of the barricades)

"I've been better, I suppose." She sighed again and pulled away from him to adjust her bonnet over her silky, chocolate hair. Her tiny wrists seemed barely able to do the effort of the action, and Henri felt immensely better once they resumed their contact.

"As have I." Henri said wearily. His wife made a face akin to a grimace, a strange sight on her delicate features.

"Is it your work, _mon cher_?" Her tone was condescending, and Henri felt the weight of clouds despite the warm day.

"Yes, but more than that. I mourn the coming day as well, in case you have forgotten." He said through clenched teeth. He hated the strain on their marriage; everyday became harder and harder. At first Henri convinced himself that it was their age difference (He was freshly forty and she a ripe thirty), then he realized her loneliness. Her sadness was unbearable to him, causing the obsession with his work to increase tenfold.

"How could I ever forget?" She applied the slightest pressure on his elbow to calm him. It worked, to a certain extent. "'Twas how we met, after all."

"In a way, I suppose we owe them."

She jerked away, her short temper blaring in her eyes. "Don't you _dare_. Don't you dare drag them into this."

"I apologize." Henri let out a heavy breath and attempted to reach for her again. She avoided his outstretched arm with her Parisian nose upturned. "Please, let us not do this here. This was supposed to be a pleasant day."

"You always _mean_ well, I know you do." She admitted with the smallest shred of hesitance. "But you are so…" She trailed off, unable to find the words to describe the man her husband had become. "Whatever happened to the man who followed after me with a lily pad on his head and convinced me to marry him in front of a group of street children?"

"He's grown old." Henri's chest ached from the memories as his eyes trailed across the water until he met a curious pair of eyes. He started, recognizing suddenly the child from the day before. His wife saw the small girl as well and her frustrated face released some tension.

Then the girl's mother appeared and knelt down at the girl's level. Mother and child laughed heartily, and Madame Montparnasse split her croissant with the girl. Henri spared a glance at his wife, whose gaze was firmly fixed on the ring on the mother's hand. Her jaw had re-tightened and her lips were pursed.

"Do you know that woman?" Henri asked, and his wife turned back to him, her eyes closed.

"I did, once. I'm afraid a certain… riff broke off our friendship." She looked back over at Madame, who raised a work-reddened hand in her direction. His wife gave the woman no acknowledgement.

"What 'riff', if I may ask?" Henri, from his wife's teary eyes, knew that the riff had something to do with that day in June so many years before.

"Nothing, Hen-" She cut off, her jaw going slack and her eyes wide. Henri looked across the way as well and saw a man around his wife's age (Madame must have been a good four years younger). He held a young boy in his arms and the two left the garden together as a couple. The man bore no resemblance to the girl who had wild russet curls and bright eyes. Instead he had raven hair and eyes dulled by drugs. His fine clothes hung oddly off his slender frame and his cheap ring was a strange light amongst the black and white of his being. The boy had hair the same color as his fathers, but his mother's sharp eyes.

"Musichetta, what is it?"

She didn't respond.

* * *

Henri stood in the middle of the night and clumsily stumbled into the main room of their flat. He lit a lantern with shaking hands (he really was getting old) and sat on their chaise lounge. He picked up Grantaire's sketchbook from its place on their bookshelf and began leafing through the pages until he came upon the sketch of Ceara sleeping. He didn't bother to glance at the title last time, but in the hours when one can't sleep, the strangest urges come into existence.

_Apollo plays hero_.

Henri frowned at the three-worded explanation to a picture that appeared to have more than a thousand words behind it. He then looked to the next, which made him smile. It was a caricature that reminded Henri all too much of his early days with Musichetta. In the cartoon, a boy with glaringly perfect curls stared into the distance. His eyes had cartoon hearts drawn in them in sharp contrast with the first portrait that Henri had seen of the man Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac's cravat was undone and his mouth was upturned in a dreamy smile. One hand supported his cheek and the other held tight to the neck of an unrecognizable bottle. Henri chuckled in thinking of this wicked young dandy whose heart had been seized. Indeed, it was labeled as such.

_The Women's Plague Is Infatuated. February 1832._

* * *

Courfeyrac was the one to waltz into the back room this time. Enjolras and Ceara were in the corner (he was helping her with her French grammar. He was kind and patient; a development that none of them thought their friend capable of) and Ceara looked up to smirk at Courfeyrac's dazed face.

"Has our precious _cochon_ found something under a skirt that he was not looking for?" She teased, fluttering over to where Courfeyrac had deposited himself into a chair with a love-induced haze around his eyes.

"I could barely call it a skirt… Nothing but rags." He sighed, dreamily and placed his head on the table. "Oh, I didn't even catch her name!"

It was then that Bossuet and Joly came through the door. Bossuet heard the end of Courfeyrac's moan and laughed his hearty laugh that warmed the rest of them on such a cold day.

"Do my ears dare to deceive me? What woman has caught the affections of our local slut?" He said the insult as a term of endearment. He ruffled Courfeyrac's black curls and sat beside his friend, handing him a bottle.

"Alas, I do not think I can live the same way again! She has been a message sent from God to tell me of my mistakes! Why must He torture me so? Sending me this beauty only for her to not even look my way?" Courfeyrac took a deep gulp from the bottle before sputtering, "Woe is me! I cannot even bare to seek comfort tonight at the docks- (Ceara's eyes hardened at this and Enjolras was the only one who saw, gently placing his hand over hers for a second in consolation) for I shall see her face on any woman I bed! But it is so wrong to be shameful to this entity…"

"We have no wish to hear of your overly active sex life, Courfeyrac." Enjolras scolded, wanting to call the meeting to order but somehow knowing that such an effort was fruitless. Courfeyrac spared a wink in Enjolras and Ceara's direction, allowing them to know that he saw their single tender moment. Enjolras made no affirmation of anything, but Ceara's face flushed in the lantern light.

"She must be something divine," Grantaire commented. "Only Aphrodite could capture your attentions."

"Please, Courfeyrac, start at the beginning. How did you see her? Do you have any leads on where she may live?" Asked Ceara.

"I was on a mission to visit père Mabeuf. You know, _mes amis_, the old churchwarden?" They nodded in confirmation and he continued. "I could not find him at the cathedral, so I followed directions to his cottage on the outskirts of the city. I was shown to his garden by his kind serving lady, and it was there that I saw her." He sighed again, resting his cheek in his hand. "She appeared as a vengeful angel! A dark siren sent to capture my heart! She did not see me, for she was watering Mabeuf's garden and she was off as soon as she asked him something. Just a flash and she was gone! When I asked père about her, he called her a goblin. I laughed, for how could someone so beautiful be something so vile?"

"My, he's fallen hard." Combeferre clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. In the meantime, Bossuet raised a new bottle (where were all these bottles coming from?) and smiled warmly in the smitten Courfeyrac's direction.

"To the witty girls who went to our heads!" He nudged Joly before pouring himself a glass of scotch. Joly rubbed his runny nose and smirked at his lover.

"To the pretty girls who went to our beds!" Bahorel howled, hearing the group's mantra. He entered late and accepted a glass from Grantaire. "What have I missed?"

Ceara giggled and mussed Courfeyrac's flawless curls into disarray. "Courfeyrac is in love!"

"Oh!" Bahorel's jaw dropped in utter shock, causing the room to erupt in rambunctious celebration. In the festivities, Enjolras retreated to his corner with Combeferre while the rest drank. As the group slowly inhaled the alcohol supply, tongues grew looser and the tone lightened.

"She must be poor, oh what I would give to get her off the street!" Courfeyrac slurred about his love, and proceeded to describe (in extraordinary detail) exactly what she was wearing and what parts of her body could be seen. As he spoke, Ceara's eyebrows cinched together, and Grantaire's eyes grew wide with remembrance.

"Say, I do believe I know the waif you speak of…" Grantaire said, slowly. Courfeyrac practically threw himself across the table to get to Grantaire and grabbed the other man's jacket in desperation.

"Introduce me, Grantaire! I don't even care if she's one of your conquests! I must have her as my own and I shall save her and…" The man began to babble something that none of them could understand.

"What was her name, Ceara, do you remember?" Grantaire asked the girl beside him. She swirled her pinky in her wine and quickly downed the whole glass. Her eyes grew wide and her pupils were dilated in her inebriated state. She rested a hand on Bahorel's arm for support as she mused.

(Enjolras looked over then, a darkness clouding his eyes as his gaze lingered on her and Bahorel. He turned back when she glanced in his direction)

"I think it began with a 'P'… If not, then it had a 'P' in it. Her friend's name was Gavroche or something of the like. Although I don't remember her to be particularly pretty…"

"Oh, but she is!" Courfeyrac moaned, allowing himself to collapse with his torso on the table.

"Gavroche, you say?" Enjolras's attention was suddenly gained. Ceara nodded, wide-eyed and slightly wavering in her seat. Enjolras frowned momentarily at the empty glass in her hand. "I fought next to an urchin called Gavroche in '30. Brave boy, if I remember properly. Little scoundrel was barely ten at the time. Blond hair and blue eyes?"

"I did not pay particular attention to his eyes," Confessed Ceara. "And it was dark, so I can't be too sure of his hair."

"How can I see her again?" Courfeyrac was in no state to do anything, and he seemed to realize the annoying nature of his loving moans. "Christ, I sound like Marius…"

"Marius! How is the boy?"Asked Bossuet. " I always liked him…"

"Who is Marius?" Ceara seemed overwhelmingly confused. Marius had joined in 1830, long before Ceara snuck into the lives of _Les Amis_.

"He is a Buonapartist… good riddance. Although I admit that he had a certain naïve charm about him. He is in love you say?" Enjolras asked. Ceara could tell that the fact that their peer wasn't a republican was enough to earn Enjolras's immediate disapproval.

"By the way he moans in his sleep, I would assume so." Courfeyrac sat up with great difficulty before falling back on his face. "Ow…"

Bossuet chuckled. "I do believe that you've had one too many glasses of wine, _mon ami_."

"How can I stay sober knowing that she is open for any man in Paris? Who knows who she could fall in love with?" Courfeyrac was not aware that the subject of his affections was, at the moment, in hopeless love with his roommate.

* * *

Courfeyrac and Marius were strolling by the Lark's field in a tension-filled moment. Finally Courfeyrac broke his friend's unsettling silence. "I do believe that I am in love."

He'd hoped that such a statement would bring Marius out of his shell, but Marius just shook his head sadly. "You are always in love with a bit of skirt."

"Alas, Marius, it is here that you are mistaken. I am always in lust. Like a dog in that way, I am." He winked, and Marius's serious demeanor was broken by a small smile.

"You are terrible." Said Marius half-heartedly.

"I try," Courfeyrac laughed, the sun catching his mischievous green eyes and brightening both men's moods. Had it been later in the year, the birds would have sung and fluttered their love-ridden hearts with make-shift wings. However, February found a certain chill about the air, shoving the creatures away for the winter.

"Ah! There he is!" A raspy voice spoke from very nearby. Courfeyrac turned in its direction and froze, hoping for a minute that she was talking to him. Alas, her dark eyes were focused on Marius. Up close, Courfeyrac could see her weather-beaten, pale skin. She had a bold gaze that didn't move once she'd set it on something. She had hay in her chestnut tangle, telling of where she'd spent the night. Her freckles were like stars on her rough skin, and it was all these imperfections that made Courfeyrac fall even deeper into the hole of love.

She was looking at Marius with a little smile on her face. Finally she spoke, her voice terrible to most, but lulling to Courfeyrac, who was unable to move. "So at last I've found you! Mabeuf was right. If only you knew how I've been looking for you!"

The rest of her words lacked importance because they were directed at an uncaring Marius. Courfeyrac felt a surge of jealousy as Marius received his angel's attention and cared naught for it.

"You aren't living in the tenement anymore?" She asked. Marius looked at her almost coolly before responding.

"No."

"You've got a hole in your shirt." She observed, nearly stepping forward to touch it but deciding at the last moment to not do so. "You don't seem very happy to see me." She seemed to deflate at this thought, and Courfeyrac wanted nothing more than to say _I am happy to see you!_

After a pause befell the odd trio, the sun escaped behind a cloud, drenching their world in momentary darkness. The air seemed to meet her mood, and as long as she was sad, so was Courfeyrac.

"I've got the address." Was all she said. Her face was heartbreaking to behold, the pain on it so obvious to everyone but Marius who turned pale.

"You mean-"

"The young lady- you know…" She sighed deeply, and Courfeyrac's swollen heart sank in his chest. She was in love with Marius. He could see it so plainly writ on her features. He watched with a hurting heart as the two conversed about the address, the girl with a terrible sadness and Marius with excitement. A surge of anger filled Courfeyrac at the thought of this girl being forced to run her love's errands and have him pay her no affection in return.

Of course, given the opportunity, Courfeyrac would do the same.

"Your father. You must promise- Éponine, you must swear to me that you'll never tell him where it is." Marius said, rushing. Courfeyrac's face tingled upon hearing her name, but all lightness grew heavy when he saw the same expression on her face.

"Éponine! How did you know that was my name?" She asked, then continuing despite Marius's efforts to keep her focused. "But it's nice. I'm glad you've called me Éponine."

Marius grasped both her arms and began shaking her in desperation. It was then that Courfeyrac stepped in. "Marius! That is no way to handle a lady!" He scolded, and the girl seemed to notice him for the first time.

Their eyes met and even Marius was struck by the electric shock that occurred when they did. Even for love struck Éponine, all thoughts of Marius disappeared when she saw Courfeyrac. When Marius realized that she was no longer paying him any attention, he huffed like a spoilt child and hurriedly introduced the two.

"Courfeyrac, this is my old neighbor, Éponine Jondrette. Éponine, this is my friend Courfeyrac."

"Mademoiselle," Managed Courfeyrac, reaching out for her hand. She obliged, albeit reluctantly. As he kissed her dirty knuckles, she snorted.

"You treat me like a proper lady, you do." Éponine giggled, and Courfeyrac found it to be a lovely sound. "Alas," She gingerly removed her hand from where he still held it. "I am no lady."

"For Heaven's sake!" Marius cried, exasperated. Éponine looked back over to him, annoyed. She listened to him for a bit, nodding to what he said and occasionally speaking. Every now and then, her eyes would travel back to Courfeyrac only to dart away when he was looking at her as well.

"Well, come along. Heavens." She laughed. "How delighted you are!" She led the two boys down the street for a little before she turned to the two of them, a touch ashamed. "You're keeping too close to me, _Messieurs_. Let me walk on ahead and you must follow me as if you didn't know me. It wouldn't do for respectable young men like yourselves to be seen in company with a woman of my kind."

Marius hung back, but Courfeyrac stepped forward and linked their arms. "With all due respect, _Mademoiselle_, we can let them stare."

She smirked back up at him, her bold stare meeting his unwavering gaze. She didn't know that she'd tamed the animalistic part of the dandy. She patted his arm and her eyes never left his as she said, "I do believe that we shall get along well."

"I hope so."

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**Review! I feel as though we're a little family because my reviewers review every time and you all are so lovely :) **

**(This makes ConcreteAngel our weird cousin)**


	8. Frostbite and Fear

**ConcreteAngel****- You're welcome! **

**Shimmer****- I ship Éponine with whichever barricade boy strikes my fancy (except Jehan… For some reason that's really awkward in my head). Currently, though, Epeyrac is my new ship J**

**TheIbis****- Yes, our lovely Chetta is Henri's wife. J And ****_is_**** Éponine still in love with Marius? I tried to make it so she and Courfy had a love-at-first-sight thing. In the brick, the one time they meet their interactions leave so much room for imagination, since Hugo didn't give much emotion in their words. It makes me happy inside, thinking they could have happened.**

**Carly****- I hope this chapter makes you happy, then! And I suppose I will have to change the summary, since Epeyrac is a major plot point now. J**

**SPAS****- Courfeyrac is equally cute and annoying all the time ;). I was planning on introduction 'Chetta a little later (there's a certain drawing I have in mind), but I threw it to the wind. I'm curious to hear your thoughts on our mysterious Madame Montparnasse. And I love you do, dahling!**

**I have this story planned out. There will be about fifteen chapters total plus an epilogue. After this, I think I'm going to do a PJatO AU with Éponine/Courfeyrac and Grantaire/Enjolras. Maybe some Jehan/Montparnasse? **

* * *

It was late in May, and the streets were very crowded. Couples ventured as they courted publically; men had easier access to flowers for their mistresses and the women were no longer afraid of having a red nose whilst out with their beloveds. Henri was one of the few people who walked the streets alone. Those who find loneliness in Paris become the shadows that one is scared of. They only dare to bare themselves to the night, and even then they are hesitant, sticking to bars and brothels instead of pathways lit by moonlight.

Henri drew odd looks as such. He was an obviously wealthy, handsome man with a ring on his finger. Where was his wife at this time of day? A few shopkeepers chortled, thinking he was off to visit with his mistress. That was the case, in a way. Musichetta, to disguise her annoyance with his over-indulgent tendencies, teased him by saying his work was his mistress.

Henri received change for ten francs, which amounted to 200 sous. He asked the beggars on the street his question, and if they gave him any useful information, he would reward them with a sous or two. However, his search grew quite pointless as nobody claimed to know the girl in the portrait. He approached the brothel by the Seine's docks, ignoring the scandalized stares aimed at him.

He entered and asked the pimp, "Do you know this girl?"

The grimy man peered at the picture for a while before rubbing his chin in deep thought. "Well, _Monsieur,_ for some money I can try to tell ya."

Henri grudgingly handed the man three sous. The pimp raised his eyebrows and wiggled his greedy fingers. Henri placed two more in his hand. The pimp, still not quite pleased, made a grunting noise before pocketing the change.

"I think she worked for me 'round eleven years back. Got 'erself a regular customer, me thinks. Stopped coming to work 'round December of '31." The pimp shrugged. "Probably some high-end escort for a grown-up student by now."

"Do you know if she had any family?" Henri asked. Perhaps he could find Ceara there. As he looked at the pictures, he was reminded more and more of _petit_ Enjolras who used to toddle after him at Christmas time. He knew, he _knew_ this woman was close to him. Any remaining bonds to his cousin he would seize.

"Had a brother and a sister. The sister was useless, she was too young. Sold some hand-jobs for a few years before the police got on us about it. She left not long after her sister, dunno what happened to her. The brother… He was a workman or something. I can't tell you where." The pimp said, nonchalantly, his eyes trailed on a lonely student who wandered in after Henri.

Henri handed the man three more sous, and received a rotten smile in turn. "Ah, _Monsieur_. I see you ain't much of a listener. I said that I can't tell you, but thanks for the money." He winked at Henri and greeted the other man behind him.

Feeling as if his day had gone to waste, Henri left the brothel in a foul mood. He found his way to the Corinth, a well-known wine shop that Henri and Musichetta frequented as young adults. He slipped inside and took a table in the back. The widow who owned the place approached him shortly after he sat. She seemed quite angry as she roughly slammed her meaty fists on the table.

"You."

"I'm sorry, _Mad_-"

"Why would you come back here? Didn't have enough time here ten years ago, eh?" She snapped, and Henri got a sick feeling in his stomach. Never before had he known where his cousin built his barricade. He heard it was built around a restaurant, but could it really be the Corinth?

"I believe you have me mistaken for someone else, _Madame_." Henri said as politely as he could muster. "My cousin, Marcel Enjolras, was a student here ten years ago before-"

"Yeah, I remember. Do you know how much I had to pay to fix up the place? And the bloodstains _still_ haven't come out! Not to mention that the sons of bitches threw my wine to waste!" She began to ramble as Henri stood.

"I'm sorry, _Madame_. I won't intrude any longer." He said, his voice shaky. As he left the wine shop, he looked around in disbelief. This was where his cousin died. As the widow said, he noticed dark stains on the battered floor and a dent in a nearby table, shaped as if made by a body.

Henri shook his head to clear it; this strange feeling was due to the nearing tenth anniversary of the massacre. He left the _Rue de la Chanverrie_ and went back home. Musichetta was bent over the stove, making fruity tea to freshen the two of them. Henri gently kissed his wife on the cheek, and he squeezed her shoulder before disappearing into the spare room, in which Henri stored all of R's work. Despite his requests, Musichetta refused to look at them. She seemed close to agreeing, but Henri made the mistake of mentioning the artist's full name, and she'd reeled back as if slapped.

As the reader may have forgotten, Henri found three canvas paintings as well as Grantaire's sketchbook. Henri went to the spare room and carefully uncovered the smallest of the three, frowning in confusion at it. Sure, it was a beautiful piece. Different from the rest in the way that it was highly realistic, and it did not fit with Grantaire's personality. Given, Henri never actually met the man, but from what he could tell, Grantaire felt a deep connection with his bottle.

And this painting did not put a wine bottle in a good position.

Indeed, with paint applied in smooth strokes, a broken bottle was depicted. Wine seemed to bleed from the glass shards, and the crimson liquid had a beautiful gleam about it. Henri felt as though he would touch the painting and his finger tips would come away stained with wine. In the corner of the painting, a gold glimmer was seen. Henri bent close, inspecting that shine. It seemed to be nothing, as if Grantaire had accidentally smudged the canvas with gold paint.

The label confused things even more for poor, over-thinking Henri.

_A _gamin's_ revenge_. _February 1832_.

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_There was a hill; that much Enjolras could tell. But he was leaning against a tree that hid his sights from much else, and caused his back to be too sore to focus on his surroundings. He stood away from the tree and glanced around, frowning. It was an odd place. There was green grass on rolling hills in every direction. Everything was nature but for a row of nine headstones. _

_Then there was a woman. Enjolras's breath was taken away. She was stunningly beautiful in a sad way, for her eyes lacked their cunning, instead coming across as harsh. Her hair was slightly less ratty, and it still had that beautiful caramel-russet color. She was terribly skinny though, and she held herself with tiredness from years of living life by barely surviving. _

_And he knew her. Of course he knew her. _

_She knelt down at the first grave, kissing her palm before brushing the front of the tombstone. "Bahorel," She said, softly. She moved to the next and said with equal tenderness, "Combeferre." She repeated her movements with each tombstone. "Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Grantaire. Jehan. Joly. Bossuet."_

_He waited as she came to the ninth, but she said nothing, staring down at it blankly. He approached her, warily. He came to the front of the tombstone, and was surprised at what he saw. Where the others had dirt covering them, the ninth grave was open and empty. He didn't have to look at the carving to believe it bore his name. _

_The woman said one word that broke his heart. "Why?" She asked the empty grave._

_"Ceara," He said, softly. He reached out a hand to touch her but she pulled away, hissing. _

_"Why?" She repeated, looking at him with anger. "Why did you do this? You took their lives!" She prodded his chest and he backed away, not wanting to cause her any more pain. "And for no good reason!"_

_"Ceara, I-"_

_"You left me alone!" Her voice broke. "You left me to die all by myself."_

_"I'm here, you're alive," he tried desperately to comfort her, and she shifted under his gaze. _

_"Am I?" Her voice was haunting. Suddenly he wasn't so sure. She stepped back, suddenly growing young again to be the teenager he knew. Her eyes were wide as she smiled a terrible smile. She pointed at the empty grave, and he turned to look. His every move felt as though he was wading through water._

_His heart stopped as he read the name. _

_Ceara Aerona Faerghan, 1816-1832._

_"No." He said aloud, his voice hoarse. He turned to look for her, but she wasn't there. Fearful of what he was to see, he looked back to the grave to find the hole filled with fresh dirt. "No!" He said louder, this time falling to his knees. His hands acted on their own, reaching to shovel dirt away from her. _

_However, every time his hands made indentations in the dirt, the holes would refill. And he could do nothing as the tombstones aged before his eyes, growing old and weathered. Wild flowers grew over where their coffins laid and weeds sprouted on the once-perfect hill. _

_Enjolras let loose a terrible scream as he gave up, and his scream morphed in the air to become higher and feminine…_

When he woke up, the scream was reverberating through the café, raising the heads of all those present. It wasn't coming from a red-flushed Enjolras, though. It came from outside, and Enjolras scanned the room quickly only for his heart to skip a beat. Ceara wasn't there.

"_Merde_!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, pushing away from the table. His wild eyes avoided those of his peers. "I invited her here, if she got hurt it would be my fault…"

"Damn it, Courfeyrac, Ceara hasn't come either." Feuilly snapped, and Courfeyrac paled even more.

"_Merde_." He repeated.

"_Merde_." Answered Enjolras. The two were the first out of the café, running in the direction of the scream. Enjolras was thinking about his dream, and how his female friend relied on him more than he realized. For Courfeyrac, a single name was running laps in his head.

In the lone light of a street lamp, a feminine figure came towards them. The snow filtered from the sky and swirled in the air, hiding the girl's identity until she practically ran into them. Enjolras reacted immediately, grasping her arms and asking her in a voice much huskier than usual, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, but I heard a scream!" She said, looking towards Courfeyrac who suddenly seemed to be close to fainting.

"Éponine…" Was all he said. Ceara exchanged a confused look with Enjolras before her eyes widened and a smirk graced her face.

"Oh, _Éponine_." She said, teasingly, but Courfeyrac easily brushed her off in favor of continuing the search.

"Éponine!" He yelled, and the three of them heard a meek response in the form of a groan. The small noise came from a nearby alley, and Courfeyrac was the first to run that way, immediately kneeling in filth to take a cold _gamine_ in his arms.

Ceara and Enjolras weren't far behind. Laying in the slush was a girl unfamiliar to Enjolras but somewhat so to Ceara. She bent to be close to the girl and asked in a gentle voice, "What happened?"

"Say, you are the girl that gave Gavroche shoes! It saved him, you know. He lost one of his friends because the little bastard had no shoes." Éponine rambled, appearing to be only shaken. Courfeyrac, noticing her thin clothes, quickly discarded his jacket to wrap it around the girl.

"_Mademoiselle_, please tell what caused you to scream so." Enjolras, ever the calm one, took control. He was only able to do so since he came to terms with the fact that Ceara was not the one screaming. She was there, her thin shoulder held by his firm hand.

"It was just a drunk who wished to have his way with me." She shrugged as if it was nothing, But Courfeyrac looked murderous.

"Did he-"

"No." Éponine laughed nervously and went to stand. Courfeyrac immediately reached out an arm to steady her, and she took it gratefully. "I screamed, and when he had a knife out, (At this, Courfeyrac hissed) I said that my betrothed was in the Patron-Minette. That sent him running!" She cackled at her own joke, but the laugh dissolved into rough coughs that rattled her body.

"Is he now?" Ceara asked. Enjolras snuck a look over to Courfeyrac, who was devastated and doing a bad job at hiding it.

"No." Éponine smiled wickedly, and Enjolras found a grin working on his face as well. She and Courfeyrac had more in common than one would think.

"I can't help but think that this is my fault, Éponine. If I hadn't invited you to the meeting…"

"Oh, hush." She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "I'm fine, aren't I? And now I get to meet that group you worshipped."

"You worship us?" Enjolras was highly amused, although his stony face hid it fairly well. Courfeyrac wrapped an arm around Enjolras's shoulders and kissed the man on the cheek.

"Of course I do! And you can't resist me!" He howled, causing the girls to dissolve into fits of laughter. It was then that Enjolras noticed- with a hint of annoyance- Ceara's lack of proper winter wear.

"Let us hurry inside. Some of us," He aimed a pointed look at Ceara, although Éponine blushed. "Are not properly fitted for the weather."

"Oh, you are too uptight." Ceara giggled, rolling her eyes. Although, if one were to look closely enough, they would see her barely-repressed shivers. "We are fine. 'Ponine and I have had much worse!"

"I'm sure of it!" Éponine agreed, promptly leaving Courfeyrac's side to join Ceara. The two girls hung back, laughing over some story about a mutual friend. Their arguments did not do much to comfort either of the men; Courfeyrac and Enjolras subtly increased their speed so as to save the girls' feet from frostbite.

However, it appeared a little late for that. Éponine, without warning, collapsed to the frosty pavestones. Once on the ground beneath the street lamp, her splayed legs placed her bare feet on display. They were a horrific shade of white, tinged with green. Courfeyrac shouted out and ran to her side, quite roughly shoving Enjolras out of the way.

"Why did you not mention that your feet were cold? You stupid girl!" Courfeyrac scolded. Éponine winced before squaring her shoulders and baring her cheek to him. For a moment, he was lost, staring at her bold cheekbone. When she realized that he wasn't doing anything, she looked at him quizzically.

"Are you not going to hit me, _Monsieur_?" She asked. Courfeyrac looked at his friends with a hopeless expression on his face. For how was one to respond to such a question? He chose not to answer. Courfeyrac picked Éponine up, despite her yelped curses. He shifted her in his arms and a strange look crossed his face. It was a mix of horror and pain.

"Éponine, you are freezing to the touch!" He exclaimed. She shrugged in response, obviously snuggling farther into his chest. He blushed, a pleased smile flitting across his face before he remembered the urgency of the situation. He trudged through the snow that piled on the sides of the road with an unnatural speed. He pushed through the door of the Musain, gaining a scolding from Louison.

("What is it with you students and your street girls? Why must you do that upstairs? Look at me, won't you! Listen to me!")

Enjolras and Ceara were not far behind, and when Louison shot Ceara a very pointed look of disgust, Enjolras nonchalantly draped his arm across her thin shoulders and steered her past the disapproving grisette. Ceara blushed furiously, and her rosy hue continued long after Enjolras released her to return to their usual platonic stance.

In the back room, the excitement was nearing chaos. Grantaire was on his second bottle of wine, and Jehan kept making suggestive faces at Éponine and then at Courfeyrac. Bossuet made the mistake of touching Éponine, and Joly leapt at him and began a very physical search for any illnesses he could have contracted (it must be noted that, whilst slightly offended, Éponine was laughing throughout this ordeal). Bahorel was off in the corner with his mistress, a girl barely older than Ceara with the name of Eglantina. Feuilly was attempting to assist Combeferre in warming Éponine's feet while Courfeyrac danced around everyone and hissed in their ears to not mention his feelings for the _gamine_.

"Listen!" Enjolras tried, but the room's loud noise continued around him. Annoyed, he stood on a chair and repeated, "Listen!" He put his hands around his mouth (oh and what a mouth it was) and shouted, "LISTEN EVERYBODY!"

Alas, Enjolras's efforts were to no avail. From the doorway, little Ceara placed her hands over her diaphragm and said clearly, "_C'est des conneries. Va vous faire foutre, trouducs!_"

The room slowly went quiet, Jehan staring at the small young woman in shock, his gentle mouth gaping like that of a fish. She smiled sweetly at the men and Éponine before bowing dramatically and pointing at Enjolras.

"Thank you for… that, Ceara." Enjolras said, clearing his throat and pulling his cravat away from his neck in discomfort. None of them were particularly used to such harsh curses, let alone coming from a girl who had such a kind demeanor. "I believe it's time to call this meeting to order."

Combeferre spared a nervous look towards Éponine. "Not until we get something to warm up the _mademoiselle_. Enjolras, she may die if we don't-"

"Oh, _ca fait chier_!" Snorted the aforementioned street girl, swinging her legs from her perched seat on the table. "My feet have looked a hell of a lot worse, _Monsieur_. You needn't worry for little Éponine."

It was then that something very peculiar happened. There was a small window in the back room of the Musain that faced into the alley. This window was situated as such that the bottom sill was at the same level as the table. The building next to the Musain had poor brickwork that required little effort to climb the wall.

This window was open. Why? Perhaps Joly decided that if he stayed in such a stuffy room, he was to suffocate. Or perhaps Grantaire opened the window to see Joly have a panic attack about the cold weather. Whatever the reason, the combined factors of the opposite building, the open window, and the convenient trajectory, allowed easily for a small object to be thrown into the room.

Éponine was squealing and squirming as Combeferre tickled the calloused bottoms of her feet so as to renew feeling in her damaged nerves. She'd tumbled off the table and curled into a giggling heap on the floor. It turns out that _Mademoiselle _Thernardierwas quite ticklish.

Despite Enjolras's efforts to calm the disastrous state of the room, nobody paid the blond any attention. Most were amused at Éponine's heightened ticklishness, and thus being nobody was looking out the window when something small and metal zoomed into the room and struck a full bottle of wine, spilling the contents over the table.

This quite quickly drew the attention of the rag-tag group, for all eleven heads swiveled to meet a pair of small and very angry blue eyes.

"Let go of my sister, you _batards_!" he screamed. The little boy was hanging off the other building by his fingernails, and his small (shoed) foot was eased into a space between two bricks. Curiously, Enjolras picked up the object used to break the glass bottle. It was a single sous.

"Gavroche?" Éponine asked from the floor. She stood unsteadily, her feet still quite numb, and walked over to the window. Once there, she rolled her eyes at the boy and the two began talking in rapid argot.

They appeared to come to an understanding, after much amusement from Éponine and much suspicion from Gavroche. Finally, the blue eyes scanned the room and came to rest on Ceara, who waved at the boy enthusiastically. He nodded, shortly. Then he turned to the rest of _Les Amis_.

"Lookie, you're lucky that the _mam'selle_ over there is a friend of mine. Otherwise you'd all bite dust." With one final grimace, Gavroche jumped to the street and darted off to join the rest of Paris's children. In the meantime, Grantaire was looking oddly at his broken wine bottle, admiring the way that the rich liquid shone on the broken glass.

He stored the image in his memory, to the best of his ability. The minute the meeting adjourned, he went home and mixed shades of green and gray until he found the perfect bottle green. Then he began to paint.

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**Please** r**eview, my lovelies!**

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	9. First Kisses

**Frick****- ****_Tu prend une classe de française?_**** Yeah, I googled the curses. Unfortunately, my accelerated class focuses on medical vocabulary… Why? I don't know. Ask my professor. And I hope you did/do well on your physics exam! I know that science is faaarr from my strong suit. And Tumblr… Don't get me started. I STILL DON'T UNDERSTAND AND JUST….. GRRR.**

**ConcreteAngel****- Somehow I detect a whiff of sarcasm… And I hacked into your DA.**

**Italia****- You have no idea how much your review brightened my day. :) Someone actually understands! (No one can EVER spell my name… I get like Kaley and Kaileigh and Caylee but no one ever freaking things of KAYLEE.)**

**I realized that last chapter was pretty non-romantic, so I hope this one makes my little reviewer/reader buddies happy :) (And yes, I pick favorites, so if you review, you are my best friend)**

**_WARNING_****: If you're not a big fan of male/male attraction (it's mild, I promise), then you can skip the Henri part.**

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It was June first, 1842, ten years after the day before Lemarque's death. Henri was fairly close to giving up on his hopeless search. He realized now that there was almost no way that she would be alive. From what he'd gathered, she was poor, and without _Les Amis_'s support, she would no doubt return to poverty and starvation.

He stopped by a tavern in the poorer part of the city, ordering a mug of ale while his smooth fingers traced the now familiar lines of the portrait. He was sure that his fingertips were to come away covered with dark residue, but he cared not. All that existed was the paper beneath his touch and the ale burning his throat. He could all too easily ignore the trails of sweat that poured down his forehead, and he could also pretend that his ankle wasn't bothering him like it tended to on hot days.

Around Henri, the tavern grew crowded as the summer day's light vanished into the Parisian skyline. Throngs of students and workmen came into the small establishment, often ordering small drinks so that their pay wouldn't be too affected. Henri, had he bothered to look towards the newcomers, would have felt a grudging respect for the laborers. While they were grimy and sweaty and tired from working for meager pay, Henri was relatively relaxed as he worked for higher pay. He would have thought of all this, but he wasn't paying any attention.

He was in this distracted state when the low voice of a young workman spoke from nearby. He looked up to meet a pair of light eyes surrounded by dirty blond hair. The workman was barely in his twenties, by the looks of his gangly form and round cheeks. He seemed familiar, and in his musings it took Henri a while to remember that the boy had spoken.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asked, and the boy pointed at the portrait on the table. Eagerly, Henri reached for it and held it so the boy could get a better look at it.

"I know her, I do." He repeated. Another workman came up behind him and nodded grimly.

"As do I."

"Well, gentlemen, sit down, I'll buy your drinks." Henri said all too eagerly. The first man raised his eyebrows in critique, while the other chuckled softly and took a seat.

"My friend here is so proud that he's earning money in a righteous manner that he likes to buy things himself." The second man took Henri's breath away for just a moment. Even beneath the grime acquired from a long, labourous day, the boy (for really, he wasn't older than twenty-five) was stunning. He had thick, coarse chocolate-colored hair that lay without flaw on his head. He had a broad forehead with a few blemish scars that just added to his natural appeal. He had a slightly thick mouth and a straight nose. His cheekbones were bold and daring, his neck was strong and his eyebrows were foreboding and yet friendly at the same time. But the most shocking thing about him was his eyes. Despite his dark coloring, he had eyes the color of sapphires. The bluest blue Henri had ever seen.

Remembering many things that advised him to ignore his instincts, Henri spoke with a voice that sounded slightly choked. "Ah, I see. Well, _Monsieur_," He addressed the blond one, "Consider this a reward for your participation in my investigation… Of sorts."

"What are you investigating her for?" The stunning one asked, his eyes hardening. Henri shook his head cautiously to assure the two that it wasn't for anything bad.

"I'm merely a curious art collector. I came upon this piece-"

"In the café Musain." The blond one filled in, nodding slowly. He seemed sad as he said, "I think she was friends with my sister a long time ago."

"And, while the subject of sisters is on the table," The brunette said, "She's mine."

Surprised that his answer came so easily, Henri quickly asked, "What are your names, _Messiuers_?"

"Gavroche." The blond one, Gavroche, said with a self-assured air. The second one stuck his hand towards Henri. The older man took it with some hesitance.

"Dubhghlas."

"Do you mind if I ask you boys a few questions concerning _Mademoiselle_ Ceara?"

* * *

In the meantime, whilst Henri was interrogating Gavroche and Dubhghlas, the second painting sat slightly out of sight in the spare room. Since in the midst of things this painting was never seen by Henri, the readers will have to form their own opinion on this particular work. Now, some might think that the story escalated quickly by just looking at the painting, but after some quiet deliberation, it ought to be noted that this story passed in relatively normal timing.

The painting, should its linen cover be removed, was done with harsh and angry strokes of paint despite the happy nature and general lightness of the piece of art. The colors concerning the subjects of the painting were light, however the background consisted of colors associated with sadness and anger. In the center of what was painted to appear like a spotlight was a couple.

The girl was short; the top of her caramel-colored crown didn't even quite reach the height of the man's shoulder. The man was tall, whether in comparison or in general, it was hard to tell. His upright posture made him seem even taller, and the lightly painted shadows highlighted his bold and raised chin. The girl had dimples cutting into her pretty face, and she seemed absolutely carefree against the proud stance of her partner. However, the man had a smile etched into his cheeks, his blue eyes sparkling with something akin to laughter.

There was no label, but the date was clearly written. _March, 1832_.

* * *

"_Monsieur_, pray tell, what are you doing?" She asked, softly. At Enjolras's orders, Ceara took to spending her nights on the table in the café. _Les Amis_ met regularly once a week, and only occasionally was there someone for her to spend time with in the café. (Quite frankly, Louison made poor company)

Enjolras looked up, his eyes bleary. As if deeming her question unworthy of an answer, he turned back to the work spread about on the table. Impatient and wondering why her make-shift bed was taken, Ceara quite promptly climbed on top of the table and stuck her feet on top of Enjolras's paper. He sighed and tried in vain to push away her strangely pretty feet.

Now that she had his attention, she turned around so that her elbows were on either side of his paper with her chin in her hands. Enjolras looked down at her with a strange, calculating thought brewing in his eyes.

"Can I help you?" He asked, tersely.

"Why are you here, _Monsieur_?" She titled her head slightly. The candlelight caught her clear eyes and made them gleam with an ethereal beauty that stole all coherent thoughts from Enjolras's well-oiled brain.

"It is a public café, _Ceara_." He said with a hint of sarcasm. He enunciated her name, trying to get the point across that she could just call him by his last name as everyone else did. In fact, she called the others by their last names and nick-names (respectively). It was just him.

"Yes, it is." She rolled her eyes. "I never said it wasn't. But why are you _here_ with a hopeless waif like me when you could be out dancing with your friends?"

"You are not a hopel-"

"Not the point I was trying to make, _Monsieur_." She sat up with some difficulty, and Enjolras noticed the way her arms shook with the effort. His brows furrowed and he frowned at her.

"When did you last eat?" He asked. She shrugged, discreetly wiping a little bit of sweat from her forehead.

"You are trying to change the subject," When he tried to open his mouth to object to this assumption, she daringly placed her pointer finger over his perfect lips. "Do not bother trying to insist that you are not."

"You are right." He said with some hesitance. Ceara threw back her head and released a peal of laughter.

"Oh, what a day! _Monsieur_ Marcel Enjolras admits to a street urchin that he was wrong!" She dissolved into a fit of giggles, only for her to suddenly pale and clutch the edge of the table. Enjolras lunged forward and gently took her elbow in his grasp. He helped her to sit down in the nearest chair.

"You really must eat something. I doubt that you are well." He insisted, laying the back of his hand over her brow like he'd seen Joly do to Bossuet when he coughed one-too-many times in a meeting.

She waved him away with a strained smile. "I am fine. I believe that it is _you _who is unwell, because you admitted to being wrong."

"Ah, but you see, I never said anything, so am I really wrong or are you simply right?" He pointed out, reaching for a rag that Louison left hanging over the back of one of the chairs.

"Is there a difference?" Ceara snorted, and Enjolras smiled in a demeaning way that made a frown dip into her face.

"Yes, you'll find that there is much of a difference." Enjolras gently dabbed at her forehead with the rag, cleaning the sweat that clung to her eyebrows. "Are you sure that you are feeling well?"

"Yes, I am. You're here, after all." She said, casually, nearly causing Enjolras to drop the rag. As if realizing what she said, she blushed furiously and batted his frozen hand from her face. Enjolras took the hint and left her for just a moment to call for Louison to bring some beef soup and a mug of brandy.

Once the food was placed in front of her (the clever serving girl, to get on Enjolras's good side, had placed a free chunk of white bread on the side of the tray), Ceara devoured the bread. She ignored the soup spoon and instead lifted the bowl to her lips and drank greedily. She did not remove the bowl from her face until the last drop of broth was trickling down her throat. Once she placed it down, she realized how rude she must have seemed.

Enjolras had turned back to his paper, though, which left Ceara some privacy in which to eat in any way that she pleased without fear of being judged. However, had she looked closely, she would have seen the way his eyes were watching her from beneath his blond eyelashes and how his pen hadn't moved once.

She tore her gaze away from his impressive, if tired, figure. Instead she focused on the brown drink in her mug as she sipped slowly. After she felt reasonably stronger, she brought up her initial question upon seeing her companion (of sorts) in the café.

"Why are you here while the others are out and about?"

He ignored her again, but she saw the slightest tinge of red coloring the back of his neck. She brightened considerably. Whatever reason he had for not spending jovial times with his friends, it was good. She leapt to her feet and grasped his hands, which caused his eyes to meet hers.

She pouted. "Oh, _do_ tell me!"

"Fine." He grunted, taking his hands away from hers (with a good amount of reluctance, it must be added). He carefully shuffled his papers into an organized stack and proceeded to place them in his briefcase. Once he was done with the task, he looked back into her expectant eyes and sighed. "I can't dance."

"That's all?" She seemed somewhat disappointed for a moment before her features lit up. Enjolras could never understand the strange creatures called 'women', what with their constant emotional changes and strangely muddled feelings. "I can teach you!"

"Uh, what? No, Ceara, I don't think-" He tried to protest, but she pulled him to his feet, giggling to herself.

"Oh, don't be such a bother. It will be fun!" The happiness on her face convinced him, for he would never want to do anything to cause that emotion to leave her. "Here," she carefully guided one of his hands to rest on her waist. He carefully tightened his grasp there, his thumb digging into her flat stomach and his long fingers splayed on her back.

She then took his other hand and entwined their fingers. Her unoccupied arm reached (she had to reach considerably far. To accommodate her better, Enjolras subtly stooped slightly) and her hand gently lay across his shoulders.

"Now," her voice was softer and almost shy as she began to move her feet. "One, two, three. One, two three," She guided them in a messy circle around the table. Once they finished, Enjolras looked down, a touch embarrassed.

"I told you I was terrible, no?" He laughed nervously and she made a slight grimacing face.

"Oh it's only because you are not having fun!" She said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I apologize that I do not consider dancing to be _fun_." He snorted.

"Just try!" She ordered him. He laughed a little at her amusingly commanding tone and did his best. On this round, with her movements lucid and graceful and laughter bubbling in his chest, it was considerably less disastrous.

"_Alouette, gentille alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai_." She began to sing gently and it was with her light voice filling the café that Enjolras began to truly dance for the first time in his life. It was easy for him, with her delicate hand fitting so sweetly in his and her tapered waist nudging his palm. He was more aware of her closeness at that moment than of any other time.

He actually smiled down at her and she looked away, red coloring the apples of her cheeks. Yes, to anyone less oblivious, it would be noticeable that Ceara liked Enjolras in a different way than she did the other boys. While she thought of them as her elder brothers, Enjolras held a different place in her heart. To the boys, it was fairly obvious that Enjolras cared for Ceara in a way that was very different from the way that siblings cared for each other.

But the two of them were very blind to those things, so they danced in a dangerously teasing manner that was platonic and loving at the same time. They had the air of chaste attraction around them, one that would charm any bystander. However, the only person who was watching them was a character who was the only one who would have negative feelings aimed towards the couple in their stolen minutes of bliss.

Indeed, Grantaire had retreated into the alley by the Musain to dispose of the contents of his stomach in a less-than-pleasurable manner. Upon looking up, his heart ached after seeing the two of them in the window, gentle love simmering in his muses' presence.

He stumbled to his flat in a whirling emotional cloud of despair and pain, barely able to bare the terrible reality of what he saw in the window. To cure his heart to the best of his ability, the inebriated Grantaire took out his frustrations with a well-used brush and cheap paint.

Back in the Musain, Ceara sweetly curled into a ball on the table. After Enjolras's dancing lesson, she found herself to be quite tired. With the hearty meal still warming her stomach and the warmth of the Musain's back room seeping into her skin, she felt more at home than she had before disease struck her household.

Enjolras stayed a little bit after she fell asleep, remembering the way her lips curved into a happy smile when he began to sing along with her as well as the way they moved easily together despite their height differences. When he finally took his leave, he made sure that the stove in the corner was still providing heat. As he touched the doorknob, he went against his better thoughts and swiftly placed a gentle kiss on Ceara's sleeping head. Upon the gentle touch, she smiled sleepily.

Enjolras left the Musain that night after bestowing his first kiss.

* * *

**So, I made my own little blog on our account. (everysongthatwillstayunsung dot tumblr dot com). I need someone to guide me personally because this stupid site makes me really mad.**

**Annnyyway. In my absence from this story I wrote two angsty one-shots. One was Enjonine (my first attempt with that EVER) and the second was Courf/Eponine. Check 'em out, please?**

**See you in the reviews!**


	10. Who She Loved

**SPAS****- Yes, this story will stray *slightly* from canon. Unfortunately (you know, with the violent, heartbreaking deaths and whatnot), it will stay fairly true to the Brick. I'll go ahead and tell you ONE other thing that's changed in this story, although I won't really write about it. (There's more, but.. No spoilers) Valjean's involvement on the barricade will be different, and because of that, so will his death. **

**Italia****- WHY DO PEOPLE ALWAYS SAY I'M CUTE. Like WUT. Haha and thanks. Yeah, for some reason Kaylee, although the spelling is phonetic, NOBODY SPELLS IT RIGHT. Which is more frustrating than if you have a hard-to-spell name that isn't like the way it's pronounced. (i.e., Gracee and Ceara)**

**TheIbis****- Don't sweat it ****_mon ami_****. :) And yeah, Dubhghlas, as he said to Henri, is indeed Ceara's brother. But one has to wonder, where is Ceara in all this? Hmmm?**

**Bowties****- Thank you so much! That means a lot :) I hope this is soon enough for you!**

**C****- STARTING to? You mean you didn't before? I'm hurt, m'amie ;)**

**So I'm going to the wilds of Nashville next week, which will render me unable to write because I'm going with little High Schoolers for mission trip in a place where I can't bring my laptop and there probably won't be any wifi. I was going to ask ConcreteAngel to update for me, BUT SHE SIGNED UP FOR THE SAME TRIP SO JUST. GRR.**

**I'll try to work something out, but for right now I'm just going to write as much as possible and post before I leave Sunday. **

**_WARNING_****: Again, this chapter contains slight M/M, because Dubhghlas/Henri happened and I just… I didn't have the heart to change it.**

* * *

Henri gave Dubhghlas Faerghan his word that he would keep in touch. The young man hadn't heard from his sister in twelve years. Not since he was twelve and she was fourteen. Apparently, the same went for his little sister. Henri wondered if the youngest Faerghan would be with Ceara, and if she wasn't, if she could give him any information. For, although a nagging feeling in his gut told Henri that Ceara was dead, he refused to believe that.

Gavroche simply stayed to keep Dubhghlas company, averting his eyes when Henri spoke of _Les Amis de l'ABC_. Henri chose not to comment on that behavior. In fact, he mostly ignored the blond installment of the duo until something Dubhghlas said made Gavroche throw his head back in laughter. It was then that Henri did a double take.

"_Monsieur_ Gavroche, I know where I have seen you before!" He exclaimed. Gavroche scrunched his face in confusion. Then his eyes widened in realization with a touch of guilt.

"Look, if I stole from you-"

"_Non._" Henri assured, reaching in his briefcase for Grantaire's sketchbook. He pulled it out and flipped to the sketch of the street children. It remained the same as the last time Henri saw it. The blond boy was still front and center, looking very clearly like a younger Gavroche.

Gavroche all but snatched the book from Henri's cleaner hands and observed it with a nostalgic smile on his face. "Ah, yeah. I remember this! 'Twas back when _mes momes_ stayed with me in my elephant!"

"The elephant?" Asked Henri. "As in the Elephant of _la place de Bastille?_"

Gavroche nodded. "_Oui_, when I was younger I made the discovery that the monument is hollow. Became a nice home for me, it did." He explained. Henri, recalling the doodle in the textbook, managed to make sense of things to a certain extent.

"Well, _Messieurs,_ this has been an absolute pleasure." Henri commented after pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. "But I must return home. It's past time for someone of my age to retire for the night."

"But surely you musn't be older than thirty?" Gavroche said with an air of teasing innocence. Henri chuckled and ruffled the youth's hair.

"You boys are good for my health. You come here every day after work, _non_?" He asked, and they nodded. "If I find anything new in my search, then I shall come here to meet with you. _Merci beaucoup, _again."

As Henri left the rowdy tavern, his mind was full of blue eyes and a white-toothed smile. He couldn't shake the glorified final image of Dubhghlas as silhouetted in the window. The torch light had set his dark hair aflame, bringing out the russet undertones, and the light made the trim boy's figure more than noticeable.

Henri knew that his attraction was wrong. Sinful, even.

(Then why did it feel so right?)

* * *

He returned home to a fresh-cooked meal. Usually Musichetta wasn't one for domestic activities, but in the days approaching the 5th, she always did more activities around their flat to occupy her mind. Henri, although the question was always on the tip of his tongue, never quite managed to ask her who it was she mourned.

She wasn't in the sitting room nor the kitchen, despite the warm meal laid on the table. Henri found himself to be slightly worried. He softly padded in bare feet around their garret as he searched for his missing wife. She wasn't in the powder room nor in their bedroom, leaving Henri confused as to where she was. However, as he walked by the slightly ajar door to their spare room, he heard the soft sounds of crying.

He pushed open the door and saw his wife bent over one of Grantaire's works, one hand clasped over her nose and mouth whilst tears poured from her eyes. She didn't turn to meet Henri's eyes when he came in, but her slight stiffening of posture alerted him that she was aware of his presence.

"Darling, what is it?" Henri hesitantly crossed the room. "Musichetta, what is the matter?" He bent at her level and allowed her to relax under his touch. It was then that he saw that she was observing one of the canvas paintings. (The reader may recall that we have touched upon all of them, making this particular piece the last)

"Oh, Henri…" She cried, burying her face in his chest. He wisely withheld his protestations about the silk of his waistcoat, instead opting to wrap his arms around the woman. Finally, as her sobs subsided, she pulled away from him. He released her reluctantly.

She smiled up at him through her sad haze. Even with her face swollen from crying and her nose dripping, she was beautiful in Henri's eyes. He laid a tender kiss on her sloping forehead. She turned towards the painting again with that sad smile still in place on her lips. One slender finger reached out to brush one of the figures in the painting.

This work contained more people than Grantaire had ever depicted at once. Henri scanned over the painting and saw the eight original _Amis _(With the exception of Grantaire, who was behind his easel) as well as four women. Two of them were familiar to Henri. Of the other two, one of them had her back turned to the artist, and the last bore an unfamiliar face. Most of the men were standing around the table with bottles in hand. Five men were standing close to the table and looking at the women. The four were standing on the table with stances as if they were dancing.

Ceara was bending down slightly towards Enjolras, who was looking at her as if she was the moon in the sky. She was tugging on his hands as if trying to urge him to join her. The second girl remained unnamed in Henri's mind. She was crouching in a very unladylike stance to place a pecked kiss on Courfeyrac's waiting lips. The unfamiliar woman was holding her dress teasingly above her calves, causing a watching Bahorel to smirk. The last woman, the one with her back to Grantaire, was holding a wine bottle in her hand and it seemed as though she was swaying on her feet. Joly and Bossuet stood on the opposite side of the table with both their arms raised, ready to catch her should she fall.

It was this last figure that Musichetta indicated. Henri looked at her, surprised. A slight blush was coloring her cheekbones, as if remembering the day she got that drunk.

"Whose mistress were you?" He asked, gently. To this, she turned even more pink.

"Henri, darling?"

"Yes, Musichetta?" He asked, almost scared to hear the answer. She flipped the canvas around and showed him the label.

_Patria dances with the mistress of Bahorel, of Courfeyrac, and of Joly and Bossuet. April 1832_.

"You don't mean to say-"

"Yes, Henri. I was a mistress to both of them."

In response, he placed a warm kiss to her pulse point and nuzzled his head in the crook of her neck. They stayed in that position for a while, with Musichetta recovering from her grief in Henri's arms, his legs sprawled around her and his chin resting on her shoulder.

"No wonder you seem so lonely." Was all he said.

* * *

For some reason, that day had been a duller one for _Les Amis_. Bahorel and Courfeyrac entered the back room together. Upon seeing the others with their heads together, the two dandies looked at each other and shook their heads. The night was warm enough with a cool wind coming from the Seine. It was the kind of night that prompted most young people to frisk about in their youth. Because their friends were the exception, Courfeyrac and Bahorel found themselves nearly disgusted with the others.

"Enjolras, _mon ami_," Courfeyrac said in a voice that was condescendingly sweet. "Do you not find it to be an awfully nice evening to spend in such a dragging manner?"

Enjolras didn't even look up as he answered. "This is not a boring meeting, _Monsieur de Courfeyrac_." It was a good thing that Enjolras didn't see the scowl that darkened his friend's face upon hearing that dreaded article. "It is about revolution. We have the support of General Lemarque, in case you missed my informative letter."

"With all due respect, Marcel," Courfeyrac smirked upon getting Enjolras to snap his head up in annoyance. "I haven't read one of your letters since _lycée._"

"We have General Lemaix's support-" Bahorel began, only to be immediately corrected by Enjolras.

"Le_marque_." He said through clenched teeth. Next to him, Ceara clamped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter.

"It is all the more reason to celebrate!" Bahorel crowed, and to Enjolras's chagrin, most of the others seemed to agree to it. Courfeyrac strode up to Enjolras, who refused to look up again. He dropped himself in the blond man's lap as if he were a flirty woman and tilted Enjolras's chin to aim upwards. Ceara, at this point, was very near tears in trying to contain her amusement.

"Please?" Courfeyrac pouted as he asked Enjolras, who simply pushed his friend off his lap.

After silent pleading from the rest of the group, though, Enjolras caved. "Fine."

The backroom erupted into cheers, causing Enjolras to bury his head in his hands. He wondered why he'd been so stupid to allow something such as that to occur. And he would have to take responsibility with the owner for any damaged property. Knowing _Les Amis, _there was bound to be some sort of vandalism.

He was brought from his musings by a now-familiar hand on his shoulder. He looked up into Ceara's delighted face. She winked at him and murmured, "Now you can put your dancing skills to use."

* * *

In less than an hour, the men had managed to bring in a violin player from the streets, paying him a hefty sum of seven francs for playing their celebration night. Bahorel was the first back, a blond beauty on his arm. Joly and Bossuet entered together, holding a delicate dancer between the two of them. Courfeyrac was the last to enter, running besides Éponine as if the two of them were accomplices in crime in opposition to lovers. They came into the café with flushed cheeks and dirt smeared aross their faces. On Éponine, the _gamine _princess, the dirt was in place. However, on the handsome student it looked out-of-place.

Bahorel brought his light-hearted mistress, Eglantina. She was nearing the age of eighteen, while Éponine was a few days from seventeen and Ceara was barely sixteen. Musichetta was the eldest of the women. She was twenty and a few months, and she often commented on her age in comparison with the other ballet girls at the opera.

It wasn't long before a popular ditty began to play and Grantaire easily provided bottles upon bottles of various types of alcohol. Before long, the usually (relatively, at least) calm back room was filled with the tangible warmth that comes from being in the company of friends.

Éponine was the first to dance. Musichetta soon joined her, the two darker haired women linking arms and tapping their feet in an intricate dance. Éponine, in her charming clumsy movements seemed to pull of the dance nearly as well as the graceful Musichetta. Ceara seemed content to observe the cheerful proceedings from Enjolras's side, stirring her strange mix of absinthe and bourbon with her pinky.

(She declared early on in the night, "I shan't dance unless you do as well." He'd replied, "Well, you shall have to wait all night, _m'amie_.")

But Eglantina was having none of it. As she found herself to be pulled atop the table with Musichetta and Éponine, she made a point to grab at Ceara's small elbow when she passed by. Ceara yelped in surprise and accidentally spilt her drink on Bossuet, who happened to be walking past her at the time. The four began to move to the music uncomfortably, all too aware of the room's eyes on them.

When the violin player played a song with sharper sounds and a faster pace, however, Ceara laughed and began to move her feet in a complicated series of steps that confused and interested those watching. Éponine and Eglantina, strangely fascinated, copied her to the best of their ability, laughing when they messed up.

Musichetta snatched a bottle out of Feuilly's hand and began to gulp, making Bahorel whoop in appreciation. When Ceara looked down in her drink-induced haze, she met a pair of open blue eyes that lacked their usual iciness. The effect was like a waterfall; he was open to her as if all his defenses leaked from him. She leaned down to take one of his hands. His arm acted against his better judgment; he reached to meet her halfway and their fingers entwined gently.

In the meantime, Musichetta's light feet grew heavy as alcohol began to become a bigger part of her bloodstream. Worried for her health, Joly began to rant at her about the dangers of alcohol poisoning whilst Bossuet just held out his arms, ready to catch her. (Knowing his luck, it would undoubtedly be him that she would collapse on to)

Éponine, delighted with that new feeling of togetherness, found Courfeyrac's shoulders and pulled him roughly forward to pres her lips violently against his. Courfeyrac, shocked, didn't even get the opportunity to kiss her back. She pulled away with a pleased smile teasing her chapped lips, although a slight hurt glinted in her eye.

Eglantina teased Bahorel from a distance; taking bunches of her taffeta skirt in her hands and shaking the fabric as if she was a Spanish dancer. He got passing glimpses of her lovely legs as she danced.

In the midst of all the joy, Grantaire sat in his corner with a pipe hanging from the corner of his lip. He sketched quickly, wanting to catch the moment before it disappeared. Once the sketch was complete, he tucked it carefully back into his notebook, remembering to paint it once he got home.

Courfeyrac saw the cynic's antisocial behavior and pulled him up to join the rest. Grantaire actually smiled; a grin that was genuine instead of condescending.

Most of them didn't know that they had but two months to live.

* * *

**So I'm disappointing in myself because I had a challenge with myself that each chapter would be longer than the last, but last chapter was shorter than the one before and this one is shorter as well. **

**OH OH OH just btdubs, 5 francs is about the equivalent of 17 and a half dollars. Back in 1832, that much money was a lot. So you can imagine WHY Eponine was so "OMG 5 francs" when Marius gave it to her. **

**Review! See y'all next Sunday-ish. **


	11. The Girl with No Pearl Earring

**SPAS**- …. You're welcome?

**Bowties**- Unfortunately I found the quality to be subpar as well as the quantity…. *Shrugs* I'm all sore with nowhere to go now, so perhaps this chapter shall improve *somewhat*

**TheIbis**- That's right, think think think think! MUAHAHAHAHA.

**Punchy**- Unfortunately, the story is going to be mostly canon. I'm sorry m'amie! But I mean, he gets his "Do you permit it" moment, so he'll be happy there. I'm thinking (*THINKING*) about including some slight Jehan/R on the barricade, what do you think about that?

**ConcreteAngel** - Get out. I'm sticking to canon, and if you don't want to read barricade stories THEN LEAVE.

**Thank you for all the overwhelming support, guys! I'm too lazy to check, but I'm fairly sure that this is one of the most reviewed Enj/OC stories! I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH. JUST STAHP. But don't really. :)**

* * *

Henri brought the notebook to the tavern. Although he was sure that Dubhghlas would care not for the many drawings, he felt the unavoidable need to see the younger man soon. He did so, and he couldn't help but feel a certain pleasant pressure in his chest when Dubhghlas's eyes lit up upon seeing Henri.

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras." He said his greeting so formerly that Henri couldn't help but wave away the formality with a chuckle.

"_Non_, call me no such thing. I insist, Dubhghlas." Henri said, and the boy laughed in response before depositing himself in the spot across the worn table.

"Any news?" Asked Dubhghlas, his cobalt eyes bright with excitement. Hating to have to ruin the young man's hope, Henri gave an apology before answering in the negative.

However, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out the sketchbook that he kept on his person from the moment he discovered it. A certain sadness settled over Henri after he went through it the first time and noticed a significant absence of any works after June of 1832.

Dubhghlas took it as if he was holding something made of glass. He carefully went through the drawings with more observance than Henri had. He took his time on each individual work, and when he came across the one of his friend, he looked up with joy in his eyes.

"Ah, so this is where you have seen Gavroche!" Without waiting for Henri to respond, Dubhghlas turned to the next one. He smiled at some of the more amusing drawings, once looking at Henri with a sputtering indignance. Henri grimaced, realizing that the more innocent man must have seen the very detailed image of the late Enjolras leaning against a doorframe with no cover on his chest. At least R had been modest enough to only draw from Enjolras's tapered waist up.

When he came across the sketch of Ceara and Bahorel, he froze. He seemed to finally understand the importance of this notebook. He seemed almost to touch it, but pulled back, remembering the state of his dirty hands.

"You can touch it if you like, you are family. If you wish it, this drawing could be yours." Henri said kindly. Dubhghlas had gratitude shining in his eyes even as he refused the offer.

"I think Ceara should have it when we find her." He said it so firmly that Henri almost believed for a moment that they would find her.

"So _that_ is how you say her name." He said instead, not wishing to crush Dubhghlas's beautiful dreams.

"_Oui_." Dubhghlas looked slightly bashful as he admitted, "I am not as bold as she is and my mother was. I do not find it necessary to correct people's pronunciations."

Their eyes lingered on each other, Henri almost hungrily looking at the strange softness of Dubhghlas's jaw and the handsome curve of his wide forehead. Dubhghlas found himself inspecting Henri's strange expression. Upon realizing what he was doing, Henri cleared his throat and leaned back, doing his best to hide the blush that began in the apples of his cheeks.

Unfortunately, Henri was not as good at it as his cousin was, so Dubhghlas let out a small chuckle at Henri's failed attempt before continuing his search through the notebook. He would smile softly whenever he came across a depiction of his sister. His gaze lingered on a particular one that was Henri's favorite in the notebook.

Eventually, however, Dubhghlas caught sight of Henri's pocket watch, which sat between them on the table. He cursed in a language that Henri found difficult to place, and he stood quickly, handing Henri the notebook gently.

"I have to get up early in the morning, I'm afraid." Dubhghlas apologized. Henri shook his head, granting him an understanding smile.

"Have a mistress to return home to?" He said in a teasing voice. However, one as observant as an ex-_gamin_ would catch the slight hurt in his pale eyes. Dubhghlas caught this, and it made his heart leap, although he didn't know why.

"No, just Gavroche and a pathetic excuse for a mattress." He laughed, and noticing Henri's blush, he quickly redeemed himself by saying, "Although, Gavroche's mistress may be there as well."

Once again, Henri's relief struck something in Dubhghlas that confused the younger man to no extent.

"Allow me to walk you home?" It should have been a demand, but in his excited state, Henri couldn't help but be questioning of every move that he made. Dubhghlas could only nod, and the two men emerged from the tavern and into the warm May night.

Dubhghlas lived in a modest garret in the Latin Quarter. He complained slightly of his next-door neighbors. Their names were Marcello, Rodolfo, Colline, and Schaunard, and they constantly refused to pay rent, causing the landlord, Benoît, to overcharge the rest of the tenants. As they walked, Henri couldn't help but think of the drawing that was his favorite of Ceara in the notebook. He and Dubhghlas almost resembled Ceara and her companion.

It was sketched in black and white, showing a night time scene. There were two figures that were the subjects of the drawing, both distinctly female. They were walking down a street with only the slightest bit of light cast from nearby street lamps. The two young women had their arms linked and they were leaning close to each other as if laughing over a joke that only the two of them shared. Their backs were to Grantaire, but Ceara had her head turned ever so slightly so that she was looking over her shoulder and smiling softly at someone beyond Grantaire. There was no label, only the date of _April, 1832_.

They arrived at Dubhghlas's building in time to see two couples enter the building. Dubhghlas leaned close to Henri and murmured in his ear, "That is Marcello and his mistress, Musetta as well as Rodolfo and his mistress Mimì."

"Ah," Henri said, his heart beating a little too quickly for his brain to think clearly. Dubhghlas smelt of potatoes, an odd scent that carried a certain charm about it. "I shall keep you updated." He stepped slightly away from the younger man, scared by his sinful feelings. Dubhghlas looked disappointed, but he nodded.

At the very last moment before Dubhghlas entered the building, the younger man was seized with a bold feeling and grabbed Henri's head between his hands and pressed a rushed kiss to Henri's lips before disappearing. This left Henri in disarray, confused beyond anything else.

The only thing he thought of in that moment was the beautiful, heartbroken wife of his.

How could he tell her what happened?

How could he confess that he enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed her kisses?

* * *

Éponine couldn't remember ever being so happy. After her kiss with Courfeyrac, he pulled her aside and off the table. Although his voice was slurred with alcohol, the dandy confessed his love to her, to which she responded enthusiastically, kissing him full on the mouth, much to the cheers of the others.

It had only been a few days, but each morning she spent in his arms was worth all the pain she'd ever endured. She lived a life that was cold and dark, but it led her to Courfeyrac, so she couldn't find it in her heart to complain.

He was the first man who ever made love to her. She wasn't just some quick fuck in an alleyway or a way to pass time while on the look-out during a crime. He loved her, and although he told her so she couldn't help but feel waves of relief every time that she woke up and he was still there.

_Les Amis_ weren't sure what they were most surprised about. The fact that Éponine loved Courfeyrac back, or the wild reality that the young man had only eyes for his mistress. They were so used to his crude hollerings and his watchful eyes that this new Courfeyrac was quite the spectacle to behold.

It annoyed Enjolras, to a certain extent. Bahorel and Joly already spent most of the meetings speaking about their mistresses, and now Courfeyrac brought Éponine along with him. They were getting distracted, and who was Enjolras to thwart them from that? For all he knew, action would have to take place soon, causing his friends to abandon their mistresses in favor of the cruelest mistress of all- death.

Amongst it all, cholera was beginning to spread through the city. Joly seemed especially worried for Éponine, Ceara, and Feuilly, for the three of them were the poorest of the group. Thankfully, no one in the trio showed any symptoms.

("BUT ONE CAN HAVE THE DISEASE WITHOUT SHOWING ANY SYMPTOMS FOR UP TO FIVE DAYS. WHAT IF ONE OF THEM WERE TO FALL ILL AND WE DID NOT GET TO THEM IN TIME?" Joly was hyperventilating to the point that he had to be escorted into fresh air.)

Once, when Éponine stopped by with Courfeyrac to have breakfast with Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Enjolras, she was overcome with nausea and Joly immediately began to rant about the importance of drinking water, for it was the dehydration that was most deadly. To this, Éponine rolled her eyes and dumped the water over the hypochrondaic, causing his love interests to laugh loudly.

However, although Enjolras loved his friends and even Éponine dearly, he could only bring himself to worry for Ceara and General Lemarque. The people's man, Lemarque spent too much time in the slums, which left him open for illness. Already, Enjolras had confessed his fears concerning this to Ceara and Combeferre. The latter assured him that it was not likely, given Lemarque's social status, for him to contract cholera. Ceara simply laughed and told him that she was more likely than Lemarque to fall ill. This did not put Enjolras at ease.

As the weather grew warmer, the feeling of dread wrapped tighter around Enjolras. He felt that there was a storm coming, he just knew not how to proceed. Under Grantaire's welcome (for once) advise, Enjolras went to the Corinth with Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Éponine, and (after being begged by both Éponine and Grantaire) Ceara.

The odd group of five grabbed a large table and ordered several bottles of wine. Ceara and Éponine insisted that the men order the cheapest wine, for the women were not used to the expensive tastes that Grantaire and Courfeyrac were used to. When Ceara and Éponine were not looking, Grantaire quickly told the waiter to bring them the most expensive champagne. Enjolras could care less, for although he helped pay the bill, he had no intention of drinking with them.

He enjoyed their lighthearted conversations, however. And there was something startlingly endearing about Ceara's cheeks, flushed from champagne. She and Éponine clicked considerably, often falling into the children's argot that they both learned from Gavroche. Courfeyrac and Grantaire began to discuss the advantages of foreign drink versus French, a conversation that Enjolras joined purely for the intention of defending France.

By the end of the night, all of them were red-cheeked and happy, even the sober Enjolras. They left in a group, Ceara and Éponine leading the way. They made an odd sight; the two bare-footed _gamines_ with three wealthy students trailing behind them.

Ceara and Éponine giggled pleasantly at something that caused Ceara to glance over her shoulder. She met Enjolras's eye and blushed, turning back to Éponine quickly.

However, the singular moment caught Grantaire's attention, which reminded him of his favorite painting by his favorite artist. The pose that Ceara took was not unlike that of The Girl with the Pearl Earring by Vermeer.

He committed the image to his memory, storing it for future use. And, indeed, the next morning when the hangover was too much for him to attend his morning classes, he sat and sketched the scene as he remembered it. A bitter thought nibbled at his brain. He couldn't help but feel angry with the object of his affections, for once Enjolras took his rebellious thoughts to action, there was a chance of these stolen, youthful moments disappearing for good.

With that thought process, Grantaire tucked himself back into bed and fell into a fitful nap.

* * *

**I bought the full recording of the musical and I haven't stopped listening to it. Once Eponine's voice grew on me, I loved it. It's mysterious, kind of rock-y and since she doesn't speak English, she pronounces things weirdly and I actually like that...**

**So... Urm... Yes. :)**

**Review!**


	12. Impersonation and Daughters of Wolves

**pen-bound**- Thank you for the long review! It made my day :) I hope you have a fun trip!

**TheIbis****-** Here's some Epeyrac and Henri/Musichetta/Dughghlas for you :)

**I changed the story line a bit again. (STRAYING FROM CANON! YAY!) The attack on Rue Plumet occurs around late April. The date is uncertain because I'm too lazy to have had them read the date on the drawing. **

**This chapter is mostly fluff, but it hints ahead at some important plot points. **

* * *

Henri took a last look around the _Rue de la Chaverrie_. Now that he knew the events that transpitred in the area around it, he couldn't help but feel a morbid pull towards the streets around the Corinth. At first, nothing appeared to be any different than the other streets, but upon further inspection (meaning the shameless Henri had to bend down and peer at the cobblestones) the street was still tinged with red.

A gust of wind blew around Henri's feet, cooling him from the summer heat for a temporary moment. In this little burst of air, a bloodsoaked ribbon flew up into the air, and Henri caught it in his curiosity. The little piece of fabric was fraying at the edges and it looked worn and sun-bleached. It seemed as though it may once have been a royal blue color. The blood stains were more black than red, but a sniff provided Henri with the information to know that it was indeed blood.

He pocketed it and made his way home. Once again, the happy had taken to the streets. There were flashes of ruffled dresses, loose bonnets and perfume as a group of young ladies giggled and stared at a nearby hoarde of students that exited the Sorbonne. The men appeared well refined in their dress and speech, but their eyes were bright, their cheeks chubby and pink, their cravats loose and their jackets large in their shoulders. Henri managed a wan smile at the beauty of youth before pushing onto his street, a little winding road that was lined by tall buildings, giving the strange illusion of walking down a tunnel.

He stomped up the steps and rummaged for his key in his pocket. As he paused outside his door, he could hear giggling and laughter that was almost flirtatious in manner. One tinkling laugh certainly belonged to his wife, and the other…. Could it be?

He pushed open the door to the endearing sight of Musichetta and Dubhghlas sat on the plush couch, their eyes sparkled with wine and Musichetta's careful hairdo coming undone around her ears. She smiled beautifully upon seeing his form in the doorway and waltzed over to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Henri! At last you are home! I have been entertaining young Dubhghlas here for far too young. The poor boy's probably annoyed by a gossipy old lady!" She giggled and Dubhghlas stood to bow stiffly towards Henri, who did the same. However, when their eyes met Dubhghlas had a wicked gleam there.

"But _Madame_, surely you are less than five years my senior?" Dubhghlas asked with an air of innocence. Musichetta scoffed and gently slapped his shoulder.

"Oh, you flatter me. I am surely six."

"Dubhghlas," Henri had to cut the annoyingly amusing interaction between his wife and…. Friend (whatever Dubhghlas was). "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I came by to ask if you've found any progressions in the story." He said, formally. Musichetta watched their careful conversation with critical eyes over the lip of her wine glass.

"Alas, no." Henri said. Dubhghlas nodded, looking nearly disappointed. Musichetta rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Oh but you can't be leaving just yet!" She exclaimed, grabbing both men by their arms and forcing them to sit on either side of her. "You are talking about _Monsieur _Grantaire's drawings, no?"

They nodded, both too charmed to say much else. Musichetta reached into Henri's briefcase and rummaged about until she retrieved the sketchbook. She smiled at the both of them, a subtle hint in her eye before flipping to one of the last drawings.

"See, Dubhghlas," Musichetta had already moved to addressing the boy informally, "Courfeyrac's roommate was hopelessly in love with a girl. Even after he finally spoke to her," This earned laughter all around, "He mooned over her in his dreams! But he never confessed anything to his loyal friend, leaving Courfeyrac to poke fun at his mysterious tendencies."

Musichetta pointed a delicate finger at the light-hearted sketch. Courfeyrac and a woman that Henri recognized as Éponine were shoulder-to-shoulder as Grantaire drew exaggerated eyelashes on Courfeyrac, who had his hands clasped under his chin and his eyes pointed to the sky. Éponine's nose was shaded and her cheeks appeared rosy as she laughed open-mouthed at whatever he was saying.

"I miss Éponine…" Musichetta mused aloud. Henri turned to Dubhghlas, a half-smile on his face.

"Musichetta was acquainted with _Les Amis_." He said in way of explanation. Dubhghlas's cobalt eyes widened and he turned to the pretty woman.

"Did you know of my sister, Ceara?" He also addressed her informally, for it flowed easier, considering their immediate connection.

Musichetta froze, but did not look up from the drawing. When she did, her eyes were guarded and she appeared to have sobered up considerably. "Yes," She said carefully.

As if sensing that they were treading on thin water, Henri stood to escort Dubhghlas out the door. As they were nearly to the entryway, Musichetta's scolding voice called them back.

"Oh no you don't. Boys, sit." Her tone was sweetly commanding, a shininess in her face that had been absent moments before. They did as told, and once they did she sat on the coffee table, swinging her heavily-clothed legs. "I have a proposal to make."

When she said nothing for a while, Henri finally spoke. "Of?"

She giggled. "You do not remember what I said of Joly and Bossuet?"

"Oh." Henri said, simply. He looked over at Dubhghlas, who looked simply confused. The expression suited him.

"Well, Henri, darling, I forgot to tell you that _they _were also lovers!" She exclaimed happily. Henri's jaw must have dropped comically, for both Dubhghlas and Musichetta chuckled.

"Are you saying what I believe you are saying?" Dubhghlas asked, his youthful face alight with hope. He looked towards Henri, and once again the older man felt a surge of emotion.

"I knew you would agree. The two of you have practically been making love through awkward glances all night." Musichetta's bluntness shocked the both of them to silence. She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to press and almost chaste kiss to Dubhghlas's lips. Then she kissed Henri's, and she tasted of wine and berries. Smirking at the two boys, she waited with her arms crossed until their lips met cautiously as well.

"Now," She pulled them to her feet and linked her arm through both of theirs. "Let us go to bed."

* * *

"_Ma cherie,_" Courfeyrac said, leaning to Éponine. "I do not know what it was that you saw in him!"

"Who?" She asked, entranced by the slight redness about Courfeyrac's cheeks that suggested of time spent outside.

"Marius, of course!" He brought her back to reality with the name. Enjolras looked up from where he was to roll his eyes.

"Ah, how is our little buonopartist?" He asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"Love struck." Courfeyrac supplied. Grantaire, who was having Louison fill his glass with whiskey (which he chose to raise his glass to Ceara for no apparent reason.), looked up at this.

"I am agog! I am aghast, is Marius in love at last? He never seemed the type to 'oh' and 'ah'." He said. Joly laughed.

"Oh, but he is." Said Bossuet. "See, he's very into the _idea_ behind things. He romanticizes everything from religion to studies to political philosophies."

"And females named 'Cosette'." Éponine supplied. Courfeyrac nodded in confirmation before taking Éponine's hand.

"Oh, Cosette!" He said in a high voice. Éponine giggled and pretended to fix her messy hair.

"Alas, _Monsieur_! I do not even know your name!" Her voice was high and airy in opposition to its usual raspy tone.

"It is _le baron _Marius Pontmercy, but of course." Courfeyrac pulled himself away from his mistress and made a motion similar to a schoolgirl who was about to swoon. "Oh Cosette, we just met, but I know," At this he turned back to Éponine. "We are meant to be!" He snuck a kiss to her lips before pulling back, looking ashamed with himself. "But I have disrespected you! Woe is me!" He draped himself dramatically across Éponine's lap. And she petted his hair and crooned half-hearted comforts into his ear between bouts of laughter.

* * *

"There!" She cried out into his ear. They were fooling around in an alley when she suddenly spotted Marius. Courfeyrac pulled away, albeit reluctantly. They fixed their clothing in an attempt to make themselves somewhat decent.

"Let us follow him, perhaps we shall catch a glimpse of his lady love!"

The two did, keeping close to the shadows. Whenever the street-savvy Éponine paused in a niche, Courfeyrac would sneakily press open-mouthed kisses over the back of her neck and the exposed skin of her shoulders, causing her to have to bite her chapped lips in an attempt to not moan or giggle.

When the mischievous lovers finally followed Marius to his destination, they watched quietly as he moved aside a bar on the gate and slipped inside. They crept closer, listening ears against the brick wall.

Courfeyrac was too busy being embarrassed for Marius and his lack-luster courting to notice the group traipsing down the street, which Éponine had most certainly noticed.

"Courfeyrac," She tried, but he didn't look to her. Finally she pushed on him, "Julian!" She said hurriedly.

He turned to her, and saw her scared eyes. "Éponine, what is it?" She wordlessly indicated the lazily slouched men down the way.

"Are you worried? We can go back to my garret, if you wish." He offered, not getting what she was hinting at.

"Hide." She said, shortly. When he looked at her in confusion, she dragged him to the gate and pushed him past the loose bar. "Stay."

"Éponine, wait!" He called, but his sweetheart had her back turned to him as she settled down on the ground in front of the gate.

"Courfeyrac?" Marius's voice was confused and slightly embarrassed. Courfeyrac flinched in shame and turned to face the couple.

"Urm, hello?" He waved his hand half-heartedly. Marius returned the wave although the pretty russet-haired girl beside him looked terrified. Her wide blue eyes were quivering with what seemed to be tears of fright. "It is a pleasure to meet you, _mademoiselle_."

In a futile attempt to calm the awkward air, Courfeyrac held out his hand. She placed a trembling, gloved hand in his and he kissed her covered knuckles. He felt a part of him recoil in disgust towards this polished woman, for she was nothing in comparison to Éponine. He immediately felt guilty thinking this for she appeared to be a very nice girl.

Remembering his lover, he kept out of sight of the street but came close enough to hear what was going on. He could hear the soft footsteps of Marius and Cosette as they followed him in their curiosity.

"It's an old gate." A voice said.

"So much the better. We can cut through the bars all the easier." Another gruff voice responded. Courfeyrac's breath hitched. Robbers. And Éponine was out there alone.

"There's a dog!" The voice he was accustomed to hearing say his name in the bedroom spoke. They jumped back, Courfeyrac could hear the surprised gasps and some coughs that had been girly screams in their throats.

"Who the devil are you?" A cruel voice asked.

"Your daughter." Éponine replied, coolly. Courfeyrac sucked in, knowing nothing of Éponine's past, only that she was poor and wished not to revisit it.

"Is that Éponine or the other, I wonder?" Marius thought aloud. Courfeyrac made an indignant hand gesture to keep Marius quiet. He could hear the slight rustle of taffeta as the other man pulled his love close to his chest.

"What are you doing here?" There was an undertone of anger to the voice, and it made Courfeyrac's gut tie with anger and fear. "What do you want? Have you gone crazy?" Thernardier's voice was a whisper-yell, the sound of one who needed to express frustration without making too much noise. "Have you come to try and put me off?"

Courfeyrac allowed himself to be amused for a moment, thinking that there really was little need to remain quiet, being as the residents were listening in on their conversation.

Éponine laughed and began chattering pleasantly, asking her father about her family. Courfeyrac could hear the heavy shuffles that indicated the gang's restlessness, though. When the men spoke of her stalling, she simply moved on to bothering the rest of them. Courfeyrac's heart was swollen with pride, and not even her flirting with one of them put him off.

Cosette, behind Courfeyrac and in front of Marius, shuddered. "I know that voice," She said of Thernardier, her eyes ghosting over.

"Two women live alone." Said one of the men.

"No, the people have left!" She insisted. Someone snorted, and Courfeyrac curiously looked to the house and cursed under his breath. One of the candles was alight in the window.

"The candles haven't."

Damn.

"Anyway, they're poor, nothing there of any value!" It was a desperate plea on Éponine's part. Cosette huffed and muttered something arguing that statement under her breath.

Thernardier said something crude and there was a loud sound of someone hitting the ground. Courfeyrac's muscles tensed, and Marius had to hold him back from leaping to her.

"Montparnasse!" Her voice was slightly lilted from loss of breath that occurred when she was thrust to the ground. "You're my friend, you're a good boy. Don't go in!"

The one who must be Montparnasse said, "Watch out you don't cut yourself."

There was a little more banter before finally Éponine said loudly as if in warning to the three in the garden. "I won't let you break in! Listen to me. I mean this. If you try to get into the garden, if you so much as _touch _this gate, I'll scream the place down. I'll rouse the whole neighborhood and have the lot of you pinched." She threatened.

"She will, too." Thernardier murmured, and Courfeyrac smirked. That was his girl.

"And my father for a start!" She exclaimed. "You keep your distance."

"What's gotten into her? Bitch." Spat her father, to which she laughed.

"Say what you like, you aren't going in. I'm not a dog's daughter but a wolf's. There are six of you, six men and I'm one woman, but I'm not afraid of you."

Courfeyrac felt his chest visibly expand as a smile spread across his face. Cosette mumbled to Marius, "Who _is_ this woman?"

Courfeyrac responded instantaneously, "_Mon amour_."

"Wait," Marius sounded appalled. "You and _Éponine?_"

"Yes, what of it?" He didn't say it meanly, he said it matter-of-fact, as if it were the most common thing in the world for a well-bred dandy to fall head-over-heels for a simple daughter of the streets.

"What do I care if my body's picked up in the street tomorrow morning, beaten to death by my own father?"

Courfeyrac flinched, not wanting to think of this option. Suddenly a loud coughing fit sounded from his girl, and he gulped dryly. That cough of hers had been worrying him for some time. She tried to hide the blood from his sight, but he saw it anyway and it was her impending doom that kept him awake at night.

"I don't care if you starve." She was saying to her father, a sneer in her voice. There were a few whispers over the sound of Éponine's humming of a popular song.

Eventually there was a thunderous noise of disappointed footsteps that indicated the departure of the gang. Once the coast was clear, Courfeyrac reached through the gate and pulled a breathless Éponine through it and into his arms. He nuzzled his head in the crook of her neck.

"Courfeyrac! We are in the presence of a young lady!" She scolded lightly, and he placed her down.

"What are you then?" He asked, teasingly.

"Anything but." She responded with a grin.

"_Je t'aime_." He said, seriously, and she answered him by wrapping her thin arms around his narrow waist. It was an answer of her own.

Both of them seemed to have forgotten the other couple in the vincity until Marius spoke up. "Courfeyrac, Éponine, how did this happen?"

They just looked at each other and laughed. Courfeyrac blew a mock kiss to the couple before he and Éponine vanished back into the shadows of the _Rue Plumet_.

"Your friends are strange." Observed Cosette, delicately placing a hand over his. Her lips were upturned in an amused smile, though.

"Indeed." He agreed.

* * *

**AWWW. Okay, so next chapter is alllllllll Ceara and Enjolras. REVIEW IF YOU WANT SMUT. Does that qualify as a spoiler? Oh, well. It's an OC story, of course she has to sleep with one of the Amis. **


	13. Cadence of Silence

**TheIbis-**He is around 24/25ish, Musichetta is just barely 30, and Henri is 40ish. Here's chapter 13 for you :)

**Anon-**That they are :) I have to agree.

**Punchy**- The ribbon won't be mentioned for a while, unfortunately. You'll have to wait a little for that ;) And sorry! I haven't quite decided who Madame Montparnasse is yet, so both Eponine and Ceara have to have at least had the chance to be impregnated. God, that sounded so formal.

**ATTENTION: The drawing in this chapter will apply for next chapter, but next chapter is all 1832, so no H/D/M until the epilogue. This takes place around early May-ish. **

* * *

As June grew even closer, so did the odd trio. They told the neighbors that Dubhghlas was a friend fallen on hard times (and, to be crude, he sort of had) so as to not draw suspicion.

One Saturday morning, Musichetta rose earlier than Dubhghlas and Henri. She bade them goodbye without waking them, in that peculiar way that women can. She pressed a gentle kiss to her lovers' brows before donning a simple dress and bonnet. She left around the time that the worker's day started.

She stood out even in her plain wear. The dusty men, women and children gave her sideways looks as if debating whether or not she was worthy of being robbed. (For this reason, Musichetta chose to not bring along anything of monetary value.)

She approached a familiar child on the street and knelt down to be at her level. The child had her father's light eyes and her mother's chestnut hair and an air about her that spoke of both of them.

"Child, your name is Faye, is it not?" She asked. The child nodded suspiciously. Musichetta drew a candy from her pocket and handed it to her.

"Can you bring me to your mother, please?" Musichetta asked kindly, and Faye nodded. As if sensing the girl's hesitance to lead her, Musichetta offered her gloved hand to be led by.

The two ventured into a worn-down tenement, and when the door was opened, a frazzled woman stood in the door, cradling a baby while a young boy hid behind her skirts. Faye ducked past her mother and into the small room, while the two women stood staring each other down.

Finally Musichetta spoke. "I suppose I should call you _Madame _Montparnasse, now."

_Madame_ sighed and nodded wearily. "And you are _Madame _Enjolras. How ironic that it is _you_ who bears that name."

Musichetta winced even as her old friend moved aside to welcome her in. The room was fairly clean for a small space that housed a family of five. There were two old mattresses pushed in the corners and a rickety table that had no chairs to speak of.

"Faye is not your husband's child." She said it very simply, and _Madame_ nodded her head.

"But of course. One of the two keepsakes I have of him." She looked at her eldest child fondly and cradled her legitimate child in her arms.

"But you do not have the man himself?" Musichetta asked, confused. _Madam _looked at her haughtily.

"Of course I do not. They all died, you should know that twice over." Once again, her friend's words made Musichetta flinch.

"But, he left the barricade once Marius told him that you were expecting…" Musichetta said, and her friend looked at her with dull eyes.

"I know that much, _Madame_ Enjolras." She said the name meanly. "When I finally saw his body, he was clad in a National Guardsman's uniform."

"Oh, _m'amie_…" Musichetta crooned. "I apologize. Here I was thinking that you did not take advantage of what God granted you."

_Madame_ placed her calloused hand on top of Musichetta's gloved one. "If he was given back to me, I would still believe in God."

They sat in a sad silence for a moment, mourning their respected lovers. Finally _Madame _spoke, wiping light tears from her eyes. "When did you wed _ton Monsieur_?"

"A good few years after. He was convincing and charming. It was at the morgue that we met, you know. He was there to mourn Marcel, and I was there, well…"

"So I see." _Madame _sighed. The babe in her arms had fallen asleep, so she carried him to one of the mattresses. She placed him gently there and grabbed her running toddler to wipe his dirty face. Her efforts did little to help.

"You have three, then?" Musichetta mused. "The other two…"

"My end of our deal." _Madame _sighed. "He would support me as long as I gave myself to him like a wife gives herself to a husband."

"I thought you wed so your child would not seem as illegitimate…" Musichetta said. _Madame _shook her head.

"_Non_. Only one man survived, you know. It was he who helped me. He scrounged up some fake marriage papers to make it seem as though I was wed at the time of the barricades. I got a job until I ran into Montparnasse." She said, and she observed her reddened hands with the air of someone who carried many regrets. "I worked until the disease became too bad. I'm strong, I've survived many outbreaks, so I survived three births whilst this ailment eats me alive. I've not long left."

"You shall be with him soon." Musichetta sighed. She wasn't jealous of her friend, because she had Dubhghlas and Henri by her side. But there were times when she missed Joly's needless complaints or Bossuet's ill-fated stories.

"Yes." _Madame_ confirmed. "So, _Madame _Enjolras, what is your real reason for visiting an old friend?"

"I'm sure you were wise enough to keep some of Grantaire's drawings of him." Musichetta said. _Madame _nodded slowly. "Well, Henri has a certain fascination with Grantaire's work. He is following the story of _Les Amis_, and I know that there must be one more to complete it."

"I took only one." _Madame_ confirmed. "I believe it was the last he ever drew." She waltzed to a loose floorboard, from where she plucked what seemed to be a red handkerchief. Once she unwrapped it, though, there was a charcoal sketch, and she handed it to Musichetta without another word.

"What is the date on it?" She knew the answer, but she asked anyway.

_Madame _allowed the ghost of a smile to grace her worn face. "June 5th, 1832. After you show your husband, do return it. It's how I know what he was like in the end."

"Of course." Musichetta confirmed. "It was a pleasure seeing you again."

"Yes, perhaps the last time." _Madame _said before she was seized by a terrible coughing fit.

The door closed, separating the two who used to be pleasant friends. Musichetta took a good look at the drawing and felt her chest constrict. She was staying in her flat with Eglantine and Éponine the entire duration of the barricades, so she never actually saw the boys in action. The most proof she saw were the random pieces of furniture that lay around the streets. But now, there was this.

It was a detailed sketch, taken during a lull in the fighting. Two men sat front and center on the barricade. One was tired, a hand running through light curls and the other seemed dead to the world, his handsome features blurred by alcohol and the thin neck of a bottle was clutched in his hand. They bore the clear signs of a man whose heart had been broken.

Musichetta held the drawing gingerly in her hands. This would be greatly appreciated by both her husband and her lover.

* * *

"_Monsieur_?" Her voice was quiet, almost silent. He had to look around three times before he finally spotted her. Ceara was sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her, and one arm wrapped around the leg of the table. She seemed to be a decade younger like so, and Enjolras felt a tender feeling spread about his chest.

However, he sighed at the sight of the grown girl crouching like a scared child. "Ceara, whatever are you doing?"

She fixed him with a long glance before averting her eyes and looking back out the window. Even with the opposite building blocking most of the weather, the gloom still managed to creep into the back room. There was a bright flash as lightening threw the room into white light. Ceara did not wince like he half expected her to. Instead her dimpled chin rose as if to meet the dangerous sight.

"It is storming." She finally said. When he spoke nothing in reply, she turned to him slowly. "It was storming this night many years ago when the last of my family…."

She let the sentence wiggle into nonexistence. Enjolras sighed and knelt down to be at her level. He tilted her chin up to meet his eyes.

"You are safe." He said.

"_Monsieur_," She began, keeping his fingers beneath her chin with one of her hands. "Do you believe in heaven?"

"The only place we will ever be truly free is in the garden of the lord." He answered honestly. His pretty words soothed her, for her features relaxed. Ceara's clear eyes roamed his face for but a moment before she averted her eyes.

"You are the only one I still call _Monsieur_." She said. His legs grew sore beneath him, so he sat with his legs crossed beside her. He felt somewhat silly there on the ground, but at the same time it humbled him. He enjoyed the way the candlelight rained light on her face, the way there were shadows cast on her cheeks beneath her long lashes.

"Why is that?"

"It is a title deserving of respect." She said. "I respect them in a familiar way."

He couldn't help but feel slightly hurt by that. "And you are not familiar with me?"

"You misunderstand." She said, quietly. "I respect you in a different way entirely." In a moment of boldness, she unwrapped her arm from the table leg and placed her hand on his face. Had anyone else tried this, he would have jerked back, but his face didn't even twitch as her thumb began to trace the line of his cheek.

He leaned into her careful touch. Before either of them knew it, their faces gravitated towards the other. Enjolras froze inches away from her, unsure of how to proceed. It was Ceara who initiated the first move. She spanned the space and placed a fleeting kiss to the very corner of his mouth.

Almost immediately, she pulled away and retreated back beneath the table. "I'm…. I'm so sorry…." She apologized hurriedly. His mind was racing, for summer storms increase electricity of everything, and the May night intensified what was already there between the two of them.

He reached his hand and helped her to stand. Once he was sure she was on steady feet, he lifted her to the table. Enjolras had no idea what he was doing. He allowed his hands to do what they needed to and his body what it felt was right. One of his hands grabbed one of hers and the other went to the back of her head, tangling in her caramel hair. She seemed surprised but allowed him to move with her.

He came to her until their foreheads rested together. For once, the silver-tongued golden boy couldn't find the words. And it was the foreign _gamine_ who could supply them.

"Marcel," Usually nobody said his first name, but he allowed her. "May I let you in on a little secret?"

Each word was felt physically against his skin for with such close quarters, her hot breath met the sweaty layer over his face. Her hand, the one that was not clasped by his, rested over the spot where his heart beat sporadically. He nodded, moving his head so that the side of his nose grazed hers. Her breath hitched before she confessed, "I adore you."

Finally the floodgates broke and Enjolras seized Ceara in a desperate embrace, nothing like the either had ever experienced before. This was his answer.

His hand remained in her hair while his other released her hand to rest on his waist. One of her hands reached to rest where his neck and shoulder met and the other remained over his heart. They dared not part for fear of regaining themselves in the cadence of the quiet Musain. Ceara's skirt rode up as one leg hooked around the backs of his thighs and their kiss deepened.

Her toes tickled the fabric of his trousers, and the slight scruff that dusted his jaw scratched along her chin as they moved heads and lips to what felt natural.

Enjolras was virginal, but he was not prude. He knew how to perform the action; he understood the general motions and the physical requirements to do them. However, his confidence dwindled in his lack of experience. The street girl guided him.

He assisted her with the language of his country. She assisted him in a different language entirely.

* * *

Ceara's first substantial words to Grantaire had been defending her pride as a woman. Within two weeks of their meeting, she lost that pride to another victim of her pick pocketing, one who hadn't been as forgiving as Grantaire.

Since, she'd slept with two men for money which she used for food and dress. When she was preparing to return to the docks, she saw Grantaire on the street. In a moment of childish hope, she followed him into the Musain. It was a decision that redeemed her.

Now, lying on the table, tears came to her eyes as she realized what she'd done. First, she had been stupid enough to fall in love. Then she ruined the delicate, platonic relationship she had with the man she loved. Hearing as he pulled his clothing on, she began to believe that he was just like the three others. He would leave her naked and alone.

She didn't expect to feel the fabric of a shirt placed atop her as if it was a blanket. Nor did she expect to feel him climb back and lay next to her. She turned her head so that she faced him, and she saw him there clearly.

Thrown into brilliance by the dull light, his golden curls flopped over his sweaty face. His bare chest gleamed and she felt a smile grace her face. He smiled back.

He wouldn't leave. Not yet.

* * *

**So I'm kinda sad because Libz and Bowties and Italia have kinda disappeared off the reviews :(**

**But Punchy is back! And TheIbis is a nice, regular reviewer! I love you, ****_mon ami_****. (Innnn a platonic way because my heart belongs to Aaron Tveit.)**


	14. Waiting For What Will Never Come

**SPAS****- **Ah, I understand you. ;) I was only teasing. And here's this tragic chapter for you... I only saved two people so please don't kill me.

**Italia****- **I am as well as one can be when killing off her favorite literary characters. Glad you are still here, although I was only teasing :)

**Punchy****- ***cough* AWESOME GIFTS *cough*. Gently applied candle wax? Awkward nipples? My kind of story!

* * *

"Courfeyrac, what is wrong?"

All night, the dandy had been acting off to his mistress. She watched him carefully. He had news, but so did she. And she was to let him speak first, for hers was something that would have bigger impact.

"Éponine, I need to talk to you." He said slowly. She visibly winced. From the moment they met, they'd been on familiar terms with the other. Not even when they were angry did they turn formal, but Courfeyrac was speaking to her as 'vous' in opposition to 'tu'.

"_Non_." She said, for she knew what he was about to say. And it would ruin what it was that she had to tell him.

"Éponine, we should not see each other anymore." He said the words as if they physically hurt him, and she jerked back. Tears sprang to her eyes; she angrily wiped them away.

"Why?" She managed to choke out. It was just a few weeks ago when they had said '_Je t'aime_', and now Éponine's reality seemed more like a nightmare than a dream.

"It is for the best." He said as stiffly as he could manage. In her barely-concealed hysteria, Éponine couldn't see that he was even more hurt than she was.

"_Non_," She breathed, disagreeing. "You have damned me, _Monsieur_, and I fear there is no escape."

Éponine was remembering little Cosette whose mother had dropped her off. The poor woman, even without her child, faced scrutiny everywhere she went. Once her bastard was discovered, she was doomed.

Courfeyrac looked away. She took the hint and slowly went to the door, half expecting him to call her back. He didn't do that, but he managed to tell her three words that seemed insignificant at the time.

"Lemarque is dead."

It was June first, 1832.

* * *

Éponine watched from the hedges as Marius came to the house on _rue Plumet_. He looked around wildly, realizing how his love had vanished as if she hadn't ever been there at all. He banged desperately on the doors and the windows, lost without Cosette to guide him.

She thought it highly strange that it was the two of them left alone in their love. Without Cosette at his side, Marius was sure to go to the barricades that she heard Enjolras speaking of. Éponine found herself unable to be with any of her friends from the café, for all of them reminded her of what she and Courfeyrac lost. Even Ceara she couldn't be around due to jealousy for what her friend had found with the leader.

Musichetta was the one by her side for the days between the first and the fifth. For Musichetta was even sadder than Éponine. Both her lovers were off at the barricades to fight, and although she was not left on her own, Éponine had the feeling that she soon would be.

She didn't know if Courfeyrac was at the barricade or not. She told herself that she didn't care.

Watching Marius mourn the woman who hadn't quite left him, Éponine felt moved to not take revenge on the boy who used to be her unrequited love. "_Monsieur_ Marius," She called, stepping out from the hedges. He turned around, surprised only for his face to deflate.

"Oh, it is you, Éponine." He said without tone.

"No need to act so disappointed," She teased half-heartedly. "I've something for you, if you can give something to me."

"Well, alright, what is it?" His lack of interest was almost comical, for Éponine knew how he would react once he knew what it was that she had for him.

"A letter from your darling Cosette, of course." She handed him the neatly folded parchment, which he leapt to snatch from her hands.

"Oh, Éponine, thank you!" He cried, kissing the letter. "What can I give you?"

She smiled sadly. "May I ask for two things, _Monsieur_? You never did pay me for taking you to meet your love in the first place."

"How much do you want?" He asked, hurriedly. "I've only twenty francs on my person, but I'd willingly give you more…"

"It is information that I want," She said, "And money that I need."

"Oh." Marius seemed to know what information she wanted, for understanding dawned on his face. "You wish to ask after Courfeyrac."

"_Oui_." She said in the affirmative, sitting sadly on the bench where Marius and Cosette had spent many evenings in each other's company.

"Well, he is doing as well as expected." Marius said as he handed her the twenty francs.

"Sleeping with whatever moves, you mean?" Éponine asked bitterly. When she said that, Marius seemed appalled and nothing less than shocked.

"Of course not! He has been drinking himself nearly to death every night, and as soon as the hangover is gone he drinks some more! How else does a man act when a woman has broken his heart?" Marius seemed confused and suddenly Éponine knew why Courfeyrac hurt her.

"But, _Monsieur _Marius, _he _left _me_." She said, slowly. Then she looked down at her hard stomach and sighed. "He left _us_."

* * *

Courfeyrac watched dumbly as Enjolras and Combeferre did their best to send away men who had families to support. Marius came and stood beside him.

"So you decided to join with us after all, _mon ami_." Courfeyrac said, conversationally. Marius nodded, a grim smile on his lips.

"I support what you did, by the way. With Éponine." Marius said. Courfeyrac made a nonsensical noise into the bottle that was pressed to his lips. "Knowing her fearlessness-"

"You know nothing of her." Courfeyrac shot back, a little more meanly than was required.

"She would have tried to join you at the barricades." Marius finished. His friend sighed.

"Yes, indeed. It is true. I don't think I could bear seeing her die before I do. I'd rather wait for her in the afterlife, however long it takes her to come there." Courfeyrac said.

"Why did you not stay with her? You could have stayed alive and saved two broken hearts." Marius felt slightly baffled at his friend's decision.

"I have a duty to my country." Courfeyrac took another swig from his bottle. Seeing this motion out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras frowned in their direction. "My duty to love comes second, same with Enjolras. If love came first, he would be out looking for Ceara."

"Who?" Marius asked. Courfeyrac shot him a lopsided grin.

"Your replacement. An Irish _lass_ who stole our leader's heart, although he won't admit it out loud." Courfeyrac chuckled. "She disappeared a few days ago. She took it upon herself to do what I did to Éponine. She is distancing herself so that our deaths won't hurt as much."

"But this Ceara is better off, _non_? I mean she only has to fend for herself." Marius said. Courfeyrac's eyebrows turned in at this, although he said nothing. In their silence, Marius noticed Enjolras and Combeferre's lack of success in convincing some to leave, so he spoke up. "Enjolras and Combeferre are right. No unnecessary sacrifice. I join them, and you must hurry… There are some among you who have families, mothers, sisters, wives. You must leave the ranks."

Attention was now turned to the barricade's savior. There were some shuffling feet, and Enjolras tiredly said to Courfeyrac, "Put the bottle down."

The irony was great. Grantaire was sat as a sniper in the top floor of the Corinth and sober. And Courfeyrac, the efficient center, was the one with a bottle in his hand.

Enjolras's weary statement earned a few chuckles from the scattered nine of _Les Amis de l'ABC_. Or, seven since Jehan and Bahorel had both met their end.

"Courfeyrac, you should go." Marius said, a sudden sternness in his voice. "I told Éponine to rest with _Mesdemoiselles _Musichetta and Eglantine at Joly and Bossuet's flat. Go to her."

"But I must fight, I have made this commitment." Courfeyrac argued. Enjolras stepped to the two of them. Upon first glance he appeared cool and collected. However, in the midst of a broken heart, both Courfeyrac and Marius could see that Enjolras's heart was in a similar state.

"You have made an equal commitment to that bottle you hold. Go, you are useless here in your inebriated state." Enjolras ordered. Courfeyrac remained defiant.

"Please." Combeferre's quiet plea was what convinced him. Courfeyrac stepped towards the pile of uniforms, ready to don one and escape. Spurned by the dandy's decision, some other men began to speak among themselves, convincing their friends to leave as well.

Alas, once the crowd fell silent, five men stood at the ready to leave. There were only four uniforms.

"I shall stay, then. The fates have decreed it." Said Courfeyrac, stepping away.

Marius, the clueless boy that he was, spoke up in desperation. "But what of your child?"

The barricade fell silent as all looked to Courfeyrac, who had paled. The bottle fell from his hands and crashed into shattered pieces of glass on the ground.

"She is pregnant?" He asked, although he knew the answer thanks to Marius. "What have I done?"

"You chose your motherland once," Feuilly answered. "She appreciates it. But do not make the same mistake twice."

"But there are only four uniforms," Courfeyrac seemed in despair, "And I cannot take a disguise from one of these honest men."

"I shall stay." Said an older man. "My son can support my wife and daughters. He is a big boy."

Touched by the man's sacrifice, Courfeyrac could only shake his head. A boy, barely older than Éponine stepped back. "My sisters would fare better in an orphanage than with me."

"_Non_, citizen," Courfeyrac insisted. "You must leave, please-"

"I can stay." A boy only two years older than young Gavroche said. He is a character we have met, one who did not know that the general leading him was his sister's lover. "I have no one."

"Boy, you are not even fifteen years of age." Courfeyrac placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Please, you can leave and live your life and love."

"I shall stay, my bride knows that France comes first."

"_Non, mes garçons ._" A rumbling voice said. A fifth uniform fell to the pile as if from heaven. "You all shall go."

Jean Valjean had just entered the barricade.

* * *

Gavroche came to the flat in the dark hours of morning. None of the three women had been able to sleep, all thinking of their respective others who were at the barricades. Éponine walked the length of the main room many times. Eglantine could not complain; she was too overtaken by silent sobs. She was usually so cheerful, but her heart had physically hurt several hours prior, and she was certain that it was a sign that Bahorel had died.

Musichetta busied herself by organizing her many piles of sheet music by different categories. Her delicate hands were cut in many places from the papers' rough edges.

When the knock came on the door, all three rushed the entryway, startling little Gavroche into backing into the hallway. "Jesus," he said, "You'd think there was a hoarde of elephants here instead of ladies!"

"Gavroche," Breathed Éponine, "what are you doing here?"

"Among other things, I came to yell at my sister for not telling me that I'm gonna be an uncle." Gavroche smiled and put a hand on his sister's stomach. Musichetta and Eglantine looked to Éponine in shock, and she nodded mutely.

"Does Courfeyrac know?" She asked. Gavroche answered in the affirmative.

"He's a pathetic sight, you know. He's drinking himself into a stupor over you. If that's love then I don't wanna be in it." He shuddered and Éponine managed a dull laugh. "Anyway, I brought two things and news from the barricade."

He handed a letter to Musichetta, her name written in Joly's immaculate handwriting. He gave Grantaire's drawing to Éponine before whispering in her ear. "He's coming for you. Enjolras and Marius made him."

Then the twelve year old moved to the blond woman, who stood silently. Her tears subsided to silent resignation. She knew what he was to tell her. Gavroche motioned for Eglantine to bend at his level, which she did. He took her gloved hand in his and said in a voice too old for someone so young, "Bahorel and Prouvaire are dead."

Eglantine nodded quietly. She looked at a sympathetic Musichetta and Éponine with dull eyes. "I am going to my home now. I have nothing to wait for."

She left gracefully and ladylike, but once she was in the hallway the three in the room could hear her heart-wrenching sobs.

"Gavroche, stay here with us, please." Éponine begged, holding her brother's shoulders. "Whatever will my child do without her uncle's wise guidance?"

"That is a good point." He mused. Then he turned to the one who knew the flat the most. "Do you have any food?"

Musichetta looked up from Joly's letter and nodded, indicating in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Okay, then. I'll stay."

* * *

The morgue was crowded with dead bodies and mourners. Éponine felt Marius's twenty francs jingling in her bodice, and she held her stomach gently. She could hear people murmuring about the sadness of the loss on both sides.

"So many good, young soldiers." Said one woman.

"I hear there was a girl no older than a child with the revolutionaries. The battlefield is no place for a woman!" Said a kindly old man as he held the cold hand of his son-in-law, an honest workman.

Éponine perused the bodies of the rebels, but she found no sign of her beloved. However, she saw a man who bore Courfeyrac's bone structure. He was bending over a body wearing a National Guardsman's uniform.

No. It couldn't be.

She pushed through the crowd and made it to where _Madame _and _Monsieur _de Courfeyrac were looking at their son. She said nothing to the mourning parents, simply covering her face with both her hands.

Courfeyrac was beautiful in death. His pale face was peaceful and they put his eyelids over his blank green eyes so that he appeared to be merely sleeping. The sight elicited a muffled cry from Éponine, drawing the couple's attention to the young woman.

She had borrowed a gown that used to belong to one of Courfeyrac's old mistresses (she left it in the flat, in pointless hope that she and Courfeyrac would last). It fit her quite wonderfully, for the previous owner had been petite. Although the skirt came a little short on Éponine's ankles, it otherwise looked very decent. At Musichetta's garret, she'd washed her face and hair. She looked less like a cretin and more like a grisette.

_Madame _de Courfeyrac saw her teary eyes and stood and embraced her in that kind way that mothers can. After putting her arms around Éponine, she felt the familiar hardness in the girl's stomach. The woman, instead of being scandalized, expected no less from her late son and instead acted as if Éponine were her daughter.

Éponine may have lost the father to her child, but she was not alone. Not until cholera struck the town in northern France where the de Courfeyracs lived.

Until then, she would survive.

* * *

**Well, there's the answer to the ****_Madame _****Montparnasse thing...**

**Next chapter you find out what happens to the whole Enjolras/Ceara development. No drawing, unfortunately, but there is another document that will outline the chapter. **

**DUBHGHLAS made an appearance at the barricades! Is it bad that I fangirled over my own OC's presence?**

**One more chapter and then an epilogue :( I will miss this story! And the reviewers, our strange odd family *insert a broken heart icon here***


	15. No Dog To Be

**TheIbis**- Sommmehoowww I think this chapter is sadder... Maybe that's just because... Well, no spoilers. So.. read now. And don't kill me like I killed everyone!

**SPAS-** I'm sorry :( I hope this chapter stabs you less, but maybe it will actually be worse *evil laughter*

**Bowties**- Yes, Gav went to the barricade, but he was sent to be a delivery boy for Joly and Grantaire to Musichetta and Eponine. And here's that Enjolras/Ceara for you!

**Somebody**- Yep, there's battle stuff in here. It focuses a lot on Joly's report of the barricade, though, so maybe it's less violent than other barricade stories!

**Punchy**- Sorry! :( But i felt it was necessary for Eponine's reaction. Much kisses right back!

**Pica**- Aw thank you so much! I've never thought anyone would be able to tolerate my writing in one go :) I personally find my own writing tiresome, so it's a good thing when someone else thinks differently!

**Green**- Thank you! And I dunno, there's a lot of strangeness about Grantaire. He's a peculiar character, if I was less lazy I'd do a character study on him.

**Thank you lovelies so much! That may have been the most reviewed chapter yet! Please don't kill me after this chapter, because Grantaire gets his moment and I just... **

**Confession time: Grantaire is my favorite Ami. Even more than Enjolras and Courfy. Why am I making him sad, you ask? Because this story was inspired by ConcreteAngel's sugar-high when she said (and I quote) "If i lived in 1832 i'd jump Enjolras before he knew what hit him." Andddd so an OC story was written with none other than ConcreteAngel (aka Ceara) making an appearance! Yeah. Onto the depressing stuff now.**

**TRIGGER WARNING: **Violent, heartbreaking death.

* * *

Musichetta returned the drawing only two days after borrowing it. However, when she went to the tenement and asked for Éponine, Faye just shook her little head, tears pooling in her eyes. Musichetta herself felt close to losing it. She had ignored Éponine for so long and now that the two had finally reunited, they were torn apart by death… Again.

She returned home with a heavy heart and fell into Henri's waiting arms. Dubhghlas was at work, for although he was now supported by the Enjolras's, he felt obligated to continue assisting Paris in any way he could. Small things made the biggest difference.

"But what I continue to wonder even now is what happened to Ceara?" Henri murmured into Musichetta's messy hair. His wife sat up from where she'd been lounging in his arms and looked at him closely.

"Do you really wish to destroy the illusion of mystery that surrounds her?" When Henri nodded, Musichetta sighed. "It will break Dubhghlas's heart."

Henri helped her to stand and watched from their living room as she disappeared into the master bedroom and retrieved a small, stained piece of parchment. She turned a lovely rose shade when she met Henri's inquisitive glance.

"Is it so bad that I kept it?"

'It' was the letter that Joly sent with Gavroche. Musichetta remembered always the cute way that Bossuet and Joly signed the bottom, signaling that they both would love her until their very end.

"_Non_." Henri assured her. "May I see it?"

She complied, and Henri slowly began to read the tiny handwriting that belonged to a late man by the name of Georges Leslie, who went by the loving nickname of 'Joly'.

* * *

_Dearest Musichetta, _

_I cannot believe that we thought that we would win. I feel like a traitor here, writing you of our inevitable destruction. I cannot return to you, _ma cherie_, for I owe Enjolras my duty. It is that atop the fact that I had to be the one to deliver the news to him…._

* * *

In the mass chaos of the first wave, little was noticed but blue and red uniform. The revolutionaries were caught in the adrenaline, not noticing if their comrades fell around them. Bahorel was the first to fall, a bayonet caught him in the chest.

He was stuck on an outcropping table leg, unable to move due to his injury. Blood had filled his mouth, rendering him mute but for soft gurgling sounds that went unheard. That is, until a figure climbed up the barricade to dislodge him.

Bahorel merely shook his head, wishing rather to die in this painful position than to put _sa petite soeur _in danger. For Ceara snuck into the barricade in the midst of the fighting, sticking to the shadows so as to not alert any of _Les Amis_ of her presence. She had tried to distance herself in the few days between Lemarque's death and his funeral, but she found herself seeing Enjolras's eyes in the face of every man she encountered. He was like a drug, she could not stay away for too long lest she wasted away.

She tried, and failed, to dislodge her dying friend. She was the only one with him when the light faded from his eyes, and she allowed a choked sob to escape- the only sound she'd made all day. Ceara closed her friend's eyes and began to try and get off the barricade. When she hopped to the ground, she failed to spot the soldier atop the barricade, the one who had his gun pointed directly at her.

The shot was fired, and she heard it in time to duck. She was too late even so. The bullet ripped through her back and she collapsed. Her head slammed on a half-upturned cobblestone with a sickening crack, but in the gunshots and yells, nobody heard.

Alone, in the shadow of the ominous barricade, Ceara's world faded into black.

* * *

_We tried to hide her so as to not worry Enjolras. This was requested by Grantaire, for apparently there is something going on between the two of them! Who would have thought it? The _gamine_ and the revolutionary. Actually, now that it's on paper, it makes perfect sense. To think, I've been fiddling with your ribbon all this while in distress over the two secret lovers!_

_I had to tell him, though. I waited until the most opportune time, shortly after they sent away those with families._

* * *

Ceara awoke in extreme pain. There was a rag in her mouth that caused her screams to be muffled, and yet they were loud enough to be heard by the man who shared the room with her. She was a touch pleased to discover that the rag had been soaked through with wine, causing the pain to lessen slightly under the influence of alcohol.

"You're awake." Said a familiar voice from beside her. She heard a loud thump as a gun was put beside her on the bar, and a face came swimming into view through her tears. "What were you thinking?" Since he appeared so lucid in her watery vision, she couldn't tell his expression. His words were angry and his voice was worried, which gave her enough of an indication.

The rag was wrenched from her mouth. "It hurts," She whimpered, sounding like a little girl. Grantaire nodded and she felt a hand gently touch hers.

"Enjolras is going to be even angrier." He informed her, slowly. She grew panicked at this. Even in coming to the barricade she wished to remain hidden from his sight lest he send her away.

"Don't tell him, Grantaire, I beseech you!" She cried, reaching her hand to grasp at the collar of his shirt. In doing so, she noticed something strange about her body. Other than the pain, there was this strange numbness in her lower half. She tried to move her foot, but it didn't budge.

"Ceara, stop-"

"Grantaire, what has happened to me?" Her voice was ragged- even talking this small amount was too much for her.

"You were shot, _m'amie_." He told her, gently.

"But what is happening? Why can't I move?" She was in hysterics at this point, and suddenly a searing pain erupted from her wound, causing her to release a terrible cry of pain.

Grantaire hurriedly placed a hand over her mouth until she stopped screaming. "The bullet… It hit your spine and some other organs. You have no chance of living, you should have known better."

* * *

_The bullet hit her back and broke into pieces. One portion clipped her spine, Musi, and even if she survives (which she shan't), she will be paralyzed from the waist down. Another bit of the bullet hit her lung-she breathes rather poorly. And I believe that the remaining piece pierced part of her heart. _

_Enjolras, he…. He did not take the news well._

* * *

"Joly, what is the meaning of this? There is work that must be done- ammunition needs to be distributed, the men need orders and-" Enjolras froze the moment that a high-pitched moan of pain cut through the air of the Corinth.

"Enjolras, she was found on the barricade, and she-"

Joly didn't even get to finish. Enjolras pushed past him and entered the room, seeing a frantic Grantaire trying to quiet her. Enjolras felt shaken at the very sight. She was laying spread-eagled on the bar, her hair fanning around her head. And there was blood, so much blood. It pooled from beneath her, trickling in a steady stream down the side of the bar.

"Ceara," It came out sounding more like a breath than a word, but it was heard by all parties in the room. Grantaire nodded towards Joly in the doorway and went to stand with him, granting the odd couple time to speak.

Before they left, Grantaire caught the hypochrondaic by the arm and muttered, "You have told him what needs to be done, _non_?"

"Not yet." Responded Joly sadly. "Not yet…"

* * *

_She will be in so much pain for however long she is alive. Since we bandaged her and cleaned her wounds, we have simply slowed her death. You know that I am a religious man, Musi. I do not believe in murder for any reason, which is why I am tending to the injured instead of fighting. But on occasion a mercy killing is moral, and I'm afraid that is what we have to do. _

* * *

"Why did you come here?"Once Enjolras found his voice, it was all he could do to not yell. She winced even then. "You know the danger, now you are-"

"Dying," She sounded choked. "I know." Enjolras frowned at this, and took her hand in his.

"What do you mean, dying?" He asked, and she moved her head so she could see him clearly. "Surely you are exaggerating…"

"_Non_. Apparently it was not a clean shot," She laughed bitterly before her face scrunched up in pain. "I shan't live, there is no chance of it."

Her accent was stronger than ever before in her weakened state. In fact, she struggled to find the right words for thing as she spoke, resulting in long pauses between her words.

"Why?" He asked, the anger returning. "Why would you come here when you know what is to happen? You know that most of us will die before the seventh."

"You are all I have left," She said, quietly. "Without _mes Amis_, I have nothing. I would end up in the Seine on the seventh if you all perished."

"Instead you are here." Enjolras managed. "Joly, Joly!" He called, and the medic came rushing in.

"Is something the matter? What has happened?" He began to prod at Ceara, who whimpered.

"Please, she says there is no chance of survival. Do something." Enjolras ordered. Joly turned away, and the leader grew frantic. "_Do something_, damn it!"

"I can't." Joly informed him gravely. "Even if I was to go to surgical measures, we would need transplants to replace her lung and heart. If we did that, she would die before the surgery was done."

She cried out again, causing a different pain to curse through Enjolras. He coughed to hide the tears that pooled in his eyes.

"Can you do anything to make it hurt less?" She pleaded, her voice growing softer.

Joly paused, unwilling to answer. Grantaire retrieved his spot by the window, aiming his musket and firing at a soldier who tried to sneak in through a hole in the barricade. Enjolras noticed their pointed ignorance and his eyes narrowed.

"There _is_ something, isn't there?" He accused them. Joly sighed heavily.

"You are not going to like it, Enjolras." He walked to Ceara and whispered something in her ear. She took a rattling breath and nodded quickly, agreeing with whatever it was that he proposed.

"What is it, then?" Enjolras asked, looking between the three of them.

"To stop her pain you would have to put her out of her misery completely." Joly said. Enjolras's eyes widened in realization and he took a few stumbling steps towards where she lay on the bar.

"_Non_." He murmured. "_Non!_ She is not a dog! I shan't allow this!"

"_Enjolras, please_." She said it in her native tongue, but he got the gist of what she said. He shook his head even more vehemently.

"When the barricade falls," He choked out. "I shall come for you."

She nodded even as another wave of agony gripped her and she clenched her teeth together as she groaned painfully.

* * *

_Nobody even bothered to speak of who was to do it. Obviously it would be Enjolras, assuming he makes it long enough to see the barricade fall. Can you imagine that, Musi? You having to shoot me to put me out of my misery? It is morbid and heart-wrenching merely to think of. _

* * *

Enjolras directly killed a man. A tear fell down his cheek for more than just the man's memory. It fell for his failed revolution, for Jehan, for Bahorel, and for Ceara. His hands shook even as he reloaded his gun, and that moment remained burned in his brain for hours. He remembered how the young artillery officer's eyes dulled immediately, the way the young man's mouth hung open in surprise.

He would have to do that to Ceara.

As he rested upon the barricade, he could hear Bossuet talking about him.

"I admire Enjolras. His impassive temerity astounds me. He lives alone, which renders him a little sad, perhaps; Enjolras complains of his greatness, which binds him to widowhood. The rest of us have mistresses, more or less, who make us brave. When a man is as much in love as a tiger, the least that he can do is to fight like a lion… All our heroism comes from our women. A man without a woman is a pistol without a trigger; it is the woman that sets the man off. He is not in love... It is a thing unheard of that a man should be as cold as ice and as bold as fire."

Enjolras had skill in pretending to not be listening. However, had anyone been within his general vincity, they would have heard him murmur the nickname given to Ceara by Grantaire. "_Patria_."

* * *

_Oh! Men have been sent back to their families. Since I am writing you, I am obviously not one of them. Courfeyrac is, though. He is to be a father! Our Courfeyrac, can you believe it? He has begged to stay until the barricade falls, although I fear that he shan't escape at that point. _

_I love you, Musichetta. I feel like I don't tell you often enough. So does Bossuet, although at the moment he is doing the least-dangerous job on the barricade. He is keeping the mood light. As I write, he pokes fun at Enjolras and his celibacy, although we know it not to be true._

_He misses you too. He has already lost the ribbon you gave him, but he takes care to hold mine when the fear becomes too great to bear._

_You are here even with us. I know that your face is going to be the last thing that I see. If, by chance, they decide to not execute the medic, I shall return home to you a damaged man. I believe it would be better if I did not return at all, for if I changed I could hurt you the way I know it is too easy to do. I tease, _ma Cherie.

_I hope this letter finds you well. _

_With love, _

_Joly and Bossuet._

* * *

The remaining tables and chairs were flung against the door in a desperate attempt to barricade themselves in the wine shop. There was no escape, the insurgents knew that, but they would try to live as long as they could.

"Let us sell our lives dearly." Enjolras said. He saw Mabeuf's still form on the table and kissed the old man's hand. The symbol of the fatherland lay dead in the bottom floor of the Corinth. Patria herself lay close to dying on the second floor.

They all scattered- some went to the cellar, others out to the alley to beg for shelter. Enjolras's group climbed the stairs to the second floor. He went last, destroying the staircase in his wake. If any of the men found the sight of a dying girl to be strange, nobody made the thought vocal.

Enjolras felt like he was wading in water as he came to the bar where she and Grantaire sat. "Grantaire, thank you." His face softened, and he spoke to the cynic in familiar terms, the way he never had before. "Try to leave this place."

The man just shook his head, amused. Ceara shifted slightly. She was more in the realm of the dead than that of the living. Her eyes were hooded and she blinked slowly. Her lips were slightly parted as though she didn't have the energy to close her mouth or open it wider.

"Death lies on her like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field." Grantaire murmured. Ceara managed a wan smile through the pain that was so intense it was nearly numb.

"Romeo and Juliet? Really?"

Enjolras cracked a smile and reached for the pistol that he'd saved for the occasion. However, as he held it before her he found that he lacked the courage. Her weak arm lifted and her hand wrapped around his, guiding the barrel to her temple. Her pointer finger lay atop his, their entwined hands brushing the trigger.

She smiled sweetly. "I can see my family, and I shall see you soon, shan't I?" She asked. He nodded, wordlessly. "I adore you." She whispered.

"And me you." He responded. It was all he could say, for her finger was pressing his with slight urgency. He could hear as the soldiers climbed the skeleton of the staircase to reach the second floor. He kissed her as the shot rang out.

Grantaire pulled her from the bar, stowing her body behind it in case the soldiers had malicious intent. Enjolras stood in a daze before he crossed to the billiards table and stood there. Grantaire was hidden by the bar as he tried to place his dead muse in as best position as possible.

"He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery man… Let us shoot him down on the spot." Said the first soldier to come to the second floor.

"Shoot me." Enjolras said in a strangely clear voice. He tossed aside the pistol that killed Ceara and bared his chest for the shots that were sure to come.

"I feel as though I would be shooting a flower…" Murmured the sergeant. The twelve soldiers surrounded him in a semi-circle, all raising their guns.

"Take aim!"

An officer stopped the sergeant and looked to Enjolras with the slightest bit of sympathy in his eyes. "Do you wish to be blindfolded?"

He looked sparingly over to the bar. He could still see her blood soaked into the wood. "No."

"Was it you who killed-"

"Yes." He answered without waiting for the end of the question.

It was then that Grantaire stood from his place behind the bar. "Long live the republic! I am one of them." When he was met by blank stares, he rolled his eyes and repeated as if speaking with a poorly behaved-child. "Long live the republic, I am one of them."

He pushed past the executioners and took his place beside Enjolras. In the moment that the artist stood beside him, Enjolras mused that it was thanks to the cynic that he even met his Patria. He owed him, and it was a shame that they were to go to their deaths before he could repay him.

"May as well kill two birds with one stone." Grantaire reasoned. Turning gently to Enjolras, he asked, "Do you permit it?"

He clasped his admirer's hand with a genuine smile. Little did Enjolras know, but that one act was more than enough to fill his emotional debt to Grantaire. As the two of them turned to face the guns, Enjolras swore he saw a flash of caramel hair behind them. His smile grew larger.

The smile had not faded when the reports resounded.

* * *

**I apologize for any typos/weird mistakes/other things. I did not read this over, at all. **

**I had two different death scenarios for Ceara, but this one flowed better. The other had her come down with cholera and she hid out in the Corinth to avoid them and Grantaire found her there when he went to go drink.**

**So, um, yeah. One more chapter to go, and that one will be half happy and half sad, because I bet you are all wondering what the hell happened to our darling Courfy. **


	16. Epilogue

**Italia****-** Thanks m'amie! That means so much. Do you wanna talk about R? How much time you got? ;)

**Punchy****-** Yeah well most OC stories have Enjolras dying while the OC gets preggers, so I decided to spice things up a notch. I'm sorry about Courfy, I'm even sorrier that there's some more depressingness in this chapter concerning him.. :(

**TheIbis****- **I'm sorry for doing this to you! And I don't think you should dread this one *too* much. Oh and because I am overly pretentious when it comes to my (inadequate) French knowledge, I have to correct my darling reviewer on your little tidbit. It would me 'm'amie' if you are talking to me because I am a female. I looked at your profile (yes im creepy dont judge me) so you would be mon ami!

**Mags****- **Aw thanks! That means a lot, especially coming from a new reviewer. :)

**SPAS****-**YOU THINK YOU'RE SAD ABOUT THE END? THIS IS MY FIRST FULL LENGTH STORY AND I'VE BECOME VERY EMOTIONALLY ATTACHED.

**So don't kill me about Montparnasse (although I get the feels that no one likes poor Parnasty) and Courfeyrac. This is the last chapter, and it's painfully short. I'm afraid to write anything more in this A/N because I might start to cry and that will ruin the computer.**

* * *

Musichetta dragged her feet as she walked home. It was that all too familiar day in June, the tenth anniversary of the day that their loved ones met their untimely demises. Dubhghlas was, as expected, extremely upset over the loss of his sister, but he understood that both Henri and Musichetta had likewise lost loved ones. Although it was not spoken aloud, Musichetta understood that her young lover was riddled with grief, feeling that he could have saved his sister since they were both at the barricades.

She unlocked the door and opened it to the sight of Dubhghlas chasing a dark haired toddler around the living room. Henri was pouring over documents concerning the exhibition of Grantaire's works. His curiosity payed off, for it seemed that his rich investors were quite interested in the many star-cross'd lovers portrayed in R's works. A babe who could barely stand clutched onto Henri's pant leg as he worked, chewing on a metal toy.

Musichetta took a short moment to lean in the doorway, an almost sad smile in place. It was soon wiped away when Faye approached her with her latest lessons, as taught to her by Henri. Having never learned to be literate, Henri took his free time to teach the eldest Montparnasse child how to read and write.

Consumption seized Éponine mere weeks prior, resulting in an action from her husband that none expected of him. It was not common knowledge that while Éponine and Montparnasse were wed, she cared naught for him, but he did for her. He loved her in that odd, twisted way that those with blackened hearts can. He threw himself into the Seine on the day after her death, leaving behind his orphaned children.

Who were the Enjolras's to deny three poor children a home? They welcomed the new members with open arms. Since Henri was unable to produce children, Musichetta was finally given the large family she always wanted. And she couldn't ask for anything else.

The babe had long since fallen to the hard floor, causing his face to crinkle in the foreshadowing of a cry. Henri hurriedly picked up the one christened Marcel (after the late Enjolras) and allowed him to play on his lap. Dubhghlas caught the toddler by his chubby legs and hung him suspended in the air. The child shrieked as he was swung back and forth by the young man. They named him Georges (after Joly).

It appeared that Éponine never called her legitimate children by their names, so Faye did not know that her siblings possessed any names. It fell upon the Enjolras trio to christian them, and they did in memory of their losses. Faye's middle name was Ceara, while the baby Marcel's was Julien (after Courfeyrac) and Georges's was Alexandre (after Bossuet).

It was once the chaos slightly died down that the men took notice of the woman of the house. Her smile grew into a beam as she quickly kissed Henri's cheek and then flung herself into Dubhghlas's arms (squishing poor Georges between the two of them).

"What news have you received that has you in such a mood?" Asked Henri, pleasantly confused. He stood, carrying Marcel in his arms as he did so.

She looked at both her boys before placing a delicate hand on her stomach.

"I am with child."

It took a few moments to sink in, but once it did, they both released an exuberant shout and embraced her between the two of them (the small boys caught in their tangle of limbs). Faye saw the tender moment and latched her arms around Musichetta's waist so that she was a part as well.

The day of June 5th was, for once, a day without tears.

* * *

Gavroche had, against Éponine's wishes, returned to the barricade come morning. The sight he saw drove the _gamin_ to tears. What his idols fought for seemed to amount to nothing. The barricade was but a collection of blood-stained splinters, and the cobblestone streets of the city that harbored their faith was strewn with bodies.

He took no notice of the few guardsmen that hung around the area, ducking into the Corinth to see the official line of bodies. He looked down into each of the faces, wincing slightly as he looked upon the dead. He saw Bahorel, the one who stole his heart with his violent tendencies. He saw Feuilly, the kind-hearted workman who the other street children nicknamed 'the big _gamin_'. He saw Joly and Combeferre, men he recognized who used to visit the slums and treat the children for free.

Of course, towards the end of the line, he caught sight of Ceara. The mere sight of her made him stand still with the reality of the event. Sure, he had _known_ the men to a certain extent, but the only dead rebels whom he really, truly knew were Ceara, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. He caught sight of the latter, last in line. He was holding hands with the drunken artist. It appeared that their grips were so tight that not even death could break apart the unlikely comrades.

He felt his eyes regrettably turn back to Ceara. Her eyes were still open and she appeared relatively normal but for the side of her head that was matted with blood. That could have been his sister, and he shuddered at the simple thought. Courfeyrac had informed Gavroche what his plan was prior to breaking things off with Éponine. Gavroche had, of course, agreed whole-heartedly.

He and Éponine were more than worried when Courfeyrac never appeared at Joly and Bossuet's garret. Finally, Éponine fell asleep with her head in Musichetta's lap. The older woman raked her delicate hands through the girl's tangled hair as she slept. When Musichetta wasn't looking, Gavroche stole into the dawn-coated streets.

He half-expected to find Courfeyrac amongst the dead, and was immensely relieved to not. He hoped that the student had gone to Éponine while Gavroche was away. While that would make his little trip useless, Gavroche hung onto his daydream in that odd way that children do.

He continued meandering sadly about the ruins, nearly unnoticeable amongst the filth of the aftermath.

Meanwhile, two men in National Guardsmen's uniforms sat with a bottle between the two of them. One of them was an ordinary officer who offered the random soldier a drink to celebrate their victory. The other had hesitatedly taken the man up on his offer, his eyes steel as they toasted to the loss of the revolutionaries.

The officer leaned close to the other man, his breath full of wine and blood. "See that _gamin_ over there?"

"What of him?" Asked the other man in a monotone voice. "It is but a street boy, he is of no importance."

"I bet I can hit him from here." The officer gloated, picking up his musket from where it lay on the ground beside him. The soldier snorted.

"No you can't, and you shan't. Will you not get in trouble for killing an innocent boy?" He asked, his eyesight surprisingly sharp for one whose senses should be dulled by drink.

"No. Not in this mess. I can say he was one of them and who would think anything of it?" Without saying anything else, the officer raised his gun and shot at Gavroche, who started in surprise. The bullet embedded itself in the brick wall behind the boy. The officer took aim again, but before he could pull the trigger, the soldier leapt to his feet and pulled the barrel towards himself in opposition of the _gamin_. The gun went off, pointed at the soldier's heart.

He was dead immediately.

The soldier was Courfeyrac.

* * *

**Soo don't kill me please...**

**And just because I kept forgetting to put these in the A/N's:**

**There are two RENT references! The first being Dubhghlas's neighbors, Rodolfo, Marcello, Colline and Shunaurd. And Courfeyrac tells Dubhghlas at the barricades to 'Live your life in love'. **

**I AM SO SAD THAT THIS IS DONE. SOMEONE HOLLLDDD MMEEEEE**


End file.
